SIMON   BOLIVAR,   "EL  LIBERTADOR 

FROM    A   PAINTING    BY   FRANCIS   M.    DREXEI- 


THE  PATH  OF  THE 
CONQUISTADORES 

TRINIDAD    AND    VENEZUELAN 
GUIANA 


BY 

LINDON    BATES,    JR 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  RUSSIAN  ROAD  TO  CHINA,"  ETC. 


WITH    TWENTY-FOUR    ILLUSTRATIONS    AND    A    MAP 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

1912 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

I.      THE   CONQUISTADORES    ....  I 

II.  TRINIDAD            .            .            .            .                  50 

III.  THE  SERPENT'S  MOUTH  .           .            -97 

IV.  UP  THE  ORINOCO  ....    135, 
V.  THE  CITY  OF  BOLIVAR  ....     i8& 

VI.    ON  THE  LLANOS  . '          .  .  .    223, 

VII.    THE  "DELTA"  .  .  .  .  .275, 

INDEX      , —        .....    303 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

SIMON  BOLIVAR,  "EL  LIBERTADOR"  .      Frontispiece 

From  a  painting  by  Francis  M.  Drexel.     By  permission  of  Mrs.  John 
Duncan  Emmet. 

FACING  PAGB 

RALEIGH'S  ATTACK  ON  PORT-OF-SPAIN  .  .18 

From  an  old  engraving. 

CELEBRATION  OF  THE  HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  VENEZUELA'S  INDEPENDENCE  AT  CIUDAD 
BOLIVAR  .  .  .  .  .  -34 


250603 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

FACING  PAGE 

THE  DRAGON'S  MOUTH  AND  MADAME  TETTERON'S 

TOOTH        .  .  .  .  .  .52 

VILLA  NEAR  PORT-OF-SPAIN     .  70 

TRINIDAD  NEGROES      .  .  .  .  -74 

THE  SWEETMEAT  SELLER       .  .  .  -76 

INDIGENOUS  CRICKET  .  .  .  .  .80 

QUEEN'S  PARK  .  .  .  .  .      80 

A  STREET  IN  SAN  FERNANDO  .  .  .84 

A  MUD  VOLCANO  IN  THE  OIL  REGION  .      90 

THE  ASPHALT  LAKE     .  .  .  .  .92 

CLIFFS  NEAR  CEDROS  POINT  ....     124 
THE  SERPENT'S  FANGS  ....     130 

ALONG  THE  ORINOCO  .  .  .  .  .144 

ABORIGINAL  GUARANO  INDIANS  .  .  .     148 

THE  LAUNDRY  WOMEN  OF  BARRANCAS         .  .     158 

MONKEY  STEAKS  .....    168 

STREET  SCENE  IN  SAN  FELIX  .  .  .176 

CALLE  DE  ORINOCO,  CIUDAD  BOLIVAR          .  .     190 

A  BELLE  OF  BOLIVAR  .  .    206 


List  of  Illustrations 

FACING  PAGE 

THE  CATHEDRAL,  CIUDAD  BOLIVAR    .            .  .214 

UBUEN  MULA"            .           .  .    226 

PRIMITIVE  TRANSPORTATION    .                       .  .    236 

"THE  DELTA"             ...  .    292 

MAP          .                 .                 .                 •                 •                 •  •    At  end 


vii 


THE   PATH 
OF   THE    CONQUISTADORES 

I 

THE   CONQUISTADORES 

O  IX  battered  caravels  were  slowly  near- 
ing  the  coast  of  South  America. 
Their  planking,  warped  and  parched  by 
weeks  of  sailing  beneath  the  torrid  sun, 
showed  gaping  seams.  Long  strings  of 
weeds  trailed  from  their  sides.  They  were 
in  momentary  danger  of  sinking  from  their 
leaks.  None  had  more  than  one  cask  of 
water. 

vOn  the  narrow  poop-deck  of  the  largest 
vessel  stood  a  tall,  gaunt,  lonely  figure. 
His  long  white  hair  hung  lankly  down. 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

His  eyes  were  bloodshot  from  endless 
watching.  His  painful  movements  wit- 
nessed the  rackings  of  gout.  His  harsh 
features  betrayed  the  anxiety  which  his 
iron  resolution  would  hide  from  his  men. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  July,  1489. 
Weeks  of  sailing,  of  hardship,  of  waiting, 
of  hope  deferred,  had  told  on  commander 
and  crew.  The  latter  were  in  a  state  of 
mutinous  panic.  Hungrily  the  Admiral 
peered  ahead  over  the  tropic  sea. 

Suddenly  a  sailor  at  the  masthead  cried 
aloud,  "  Land  !  land !  "  The  crew  crowded 
to  the  rail.  Dimly,  in  the  distance,  on  the 
port  quarter,  appeared  the  summits  of 
three  mountains. 

"  Change  the  course  ;  put  in ! "  ordered 
the  Admiral. 

The  caravels  swung  slowly  around  and 
headed  inshore.  As  the  fleet  drew  nearer 
it  was  seen  that  the  three  peaks  were 
united  upon  one  base. 

"  A    miracle ! "    exclaimed    one    of    the 


The  Conquistadores 

sailors.  "  To-day  is  Trinity  Sunday,  and 
yonder  is  the  Trinity." 

"  Trinidad  we  shall  call  this  land,"  said 
the  Admiral. 

By  evening  the  vessels  were  close  to 
shore.  The  men  on  the  decks  of  the 
caravels  could  see  huts  nestled  among 
the  palms  and  people  moving  on  the  beach. 

"It  is  fresh  and  green  as  the  gardens 
of  Valencia  in  the  month  of  March," 
exclaimed  one  of  the  men  joyfully. 

Skirting  the  shore  of  the  Island  of 
Trinidad,  the  vessels  reached  the  entrance 
to  the  Gulf  of  Paria.  Across  the  strait 
could  be  dimly  descried  the  mainland 
of  South  America. 

"  Out  with  the  anchors,"  called  the 
commander.  "This  current  is  making  a 
roaring  noise  like  the  sound  of  breakers 
against  the  rocks." 

The  ships  hove  to  and  anchored  off 
the  Point  of  Arenal.  The  perilous  pas- 
sage between  the  island  and  the  continent, 

3 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"The  Serpent's  Mouth,"  lay  ahead.  The 
tired  sailors  ate  their  scanty  meal  of 
mouldy  biscuit  and  then,  wearied  out, 
slept.  Columbus  watched  on. 

"  In  the  dead  of  night,"  he  later  wrote  to 
Ferdinand  of  Spain,  "while  I  was  on  deck 
I  heard  an  awful  roaring  that  came  from 
the  south  towards  the  ship.  I  stopped 
to  observe  what  it  might  be,  and  I  saw 
the  sea  rolling  from  west  to  east  like  a 
mountain  as  high  as  the  ship.  To  this 
day  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the 
dread  I  then  felt  lest  the  ship  might 
founder  under  the  force  of  that  tremen- 
dous sea.  But  it  passed  by,  and  on  the 
following  day  it  pleased  the  Lord  to 
give  us  a  favourable  wind,  and  I  passed 
inward  through  that  Strait,  and  soon 
came  to  still  water.  In  fact,  some  water 
which  was  drawn  up  from  the  sea 
proved  to  be  fresh." 

Over  waves  darkened  with  silt  brought 
down   by   the   mighty    Orinoco   from    the 
4 


The  Conquistadores 

distant  Andes,  the  Admiral  sailed  into 
the  Gulf  of  Paria.  He  landed  on  the 
western  coast  of  Trinidad  and  renewed 
his  stock  of  fresh  water.  Then  through  the 
northern  passage,  the  Dragon's  Mouth,  he 
sailed  to  the  Island  of  Margarita.  Indians 
were  fishing  here.  The  Admiral  sent 
some  of  his  sailors  to  get  food  for  the 
ships.  To  their  surprise  and  delight  the 
men  found  that  the  natives  were  diving 
for  oysters  which  contained  pearls.  The 
Indian  women  who  came  out  in  coriaras 
to  the  ship  were  festooned  with  gems. 
Sailors  were  sent  on  shore.  One  of 
them  exchanged  an  earthenware  plate  for 
four  strings  of  pearls.  The  cacique  of  the 
island  gave  the  visitors  heaping  handfuls. 

11  Men,  we  have  reached  the  richest 
country  in  the  world,"  exclaimed  the 
Discoverer. 

So  came  the  first  of  the  Conquistadores, 
and  the  fatality  that  followed  them  one 
and  all  found  in  him  its  earliest  victim. 

5 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Even  while  Columbus  was  opening  to 
Spain  the  untold  wealth  of  the  New 
World,  intriguers  at  Court  were  tearing 
at  his  favour  with  the  King.  He  was 
accused  of  secreting  the  bulk  of  the 
treasure  due  to  the  Sovereign,  of  trying 
to  keep  for  himself  the  Pearl  Island,  of 
plotting  to  destroy  all  other  Spaniards. 
Ferdinand  sent  a  judge,  secretly  an 
enemy,  to  investigate.  Columbus  saw  the 
documents  which  might  have  evidenced 
his  good  faith  confiscated,  the  treasure 
ready  for  transportation  to  Spain  seized. 
In  crowning  indignity,  he  and  his  brother 
were  put  into  irons  and  sent  home. 
The  vessel's  captain  would  have  released 
the  Admiral's  bonds  on  the  way.  Proudly 
Columbus  refused  to  have  the  irons 
removed  save  by  the  royal  order.  When 
the  vessel  reached  Cadiz,  Ferdinand 
made  what  reparation  he  could.  But 
ever  after  the  Discoverer  kept  the  fetters 
in  his  chamber,  and  directed  that  at 
6 


The  Conquistadores 

his  death  they  should  be  buried  with 
him. 

In  the  wake  of  Columbus  came  year 
by  year  a  swarm  of  adventurers  seek- 
ing the  fabled  wealth  of  the  Indies. 
In  their  turn  they  found  gold  ornaments, 
pearls,  and  emeralds  in  possession  of 
the  Indians.  Alonzo  de  Ojeda  reached 
the  Bay  of  Maracaibo  and  named  the 
land  Venezuela,  because  the  huts  of  the 
natives,  built  on  piles,  reminded  him  of 
the  Queen  of  the  Adriatic.  Places  on 
the  Island  of  Trinidad,  in  Margarita,  and 
the  mainland  of  South  America  were 
precariously  occupied  by  Spaniards,  who 
first  trafficked  with,  then  oppressed,  then 
enslaved  the  natives. 

None  have  more  graphically  described 
the  conditions  of  this  period  of  ruthless 
conquest  than  the  Dominican  Friar, 
Bartholomew  de  Las  Casas,  writing  forty 
years  after  the  discovery. 

"  In  the  yeere  1526,  the  King  our 

7 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Soveraigne,  being  induced  by  Sinister 
informations  and  perswasions  damageable 
to  the  State,  as  the  Spaniards  have 
alwaies  pained  themselves  to  concele  from 
his  Majestie  the  damages  and  dishonours 
which  God  and  the  Soules  of  men,  and 
his  State  doth  receive  in  the  Indies, 
granted  a  great  Realme,  greater  than  all 
Spaine,  Venezuela,  with  the  government 
and  entire  jurisdiction,  unto  certain 
Dutch  Merchants,  the  Welzers  of 
Augsburg. 

"  These  same  entering  the  country  with 
three  hundred  men,  they  found  the  people 
very  amiable,  and  meeke  as  Lambes,  as 
they  are  all  in  those  parts  of  the  Indies 
until  the  Spaniards  doe  outrage  them. 
These  have  leyd  desolate  a  most  fertile 
land  full  of  people.  They  have  slayne  and 
wholly  discomfited  great  and  divers 
nations,  so  farre  forth  as  to  abolish  the 
languages  wont  to  be  spoken.  They  have 
slayne,  destroyed,  and  sent  to  hell  by 
8 


The  Conquistadores 

divers  and  strange  manners  of  cruelties 
and  ungodlinesses  more  I  suppose  than 
four  or  five  millions  of  souls. 

"  On  the  He  of  Trinitie,  which  joyneth 
with  the  firme  land  of  the  Coast  of  Paria 
and  where  the  people  are  the  best  disposed 
and  most  inclined  to  vertue,  in  their  kind, 
of  all  the  Indians,  there  went  a  Captaine 
Rover  in  the  yeere  1510  accompanied  with 
sixty  or  seventie  other  pettie  Theeves. 
The  Indians  received  them  as  their 
oune  bowels  and  babes.  The  Spaniards 
builded  a  great  house  of  timber  and 
pers waded  the  Indians  to  enter.  Then 
laying  hands  on  their  swords  they  began 
to  threaten  the  Indians,  naked  as  they 
were,  to  kill  them  if  theye  did  stirre, 
and  then  bound  them.  And  those  which 
fled,  they  hewed  them  in  pieces.  There 
were  an  hundred  and  forescore  persons  of 
them  which  they  had  bound.  They  got 
them  to  the  He  of  St.  John,  where  they 
sold  the  one  moitie,  and  thence  to  the 

9 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

He  of  Hispaniola,  where  they  sold  the 
other  moitie. 

"As  I  reprehended  the  captain  for  this 
notable  treason  he  made  an  answer: — 

" '  Sir,  quiet  yourself  for  that  matter. 
So  have  they  commanded  me  to  do  and 
given  me  instruction.  But  I  never  found 
father  nor  mother  save  in  this  He  of 
Trinitie  in  respect  of  the  friendly  courtesy 
the  Indians  showed  me/ 

"They  have  singled  out  at  times  from 
all  this  coast,  which  was  very  well 
peopled,  above  two  millions  of  souls.  It 
is  a  tried  case  that,  of  Indians  so  robbed, 
they  cast  the  third  part  into  the  sea.  For 
they  prepare  but  a  very  small  deal  of 
sustenance  and  water.  Wherefore  they 
die  for  hunger  and  thirst,  and  then  there 
is  none  other  remedie  but  to  cast  them 
over  the  Boord  into  the  sea.  And  verily  a 
man  among  them  did  tell  me,  that  from 
the  He  of  Lucayos  unto  the  He  of 
Hispaniola  there  trended  a  ship  all 
10 


The  Conquistadores 

alongst,  without  that  it  had  either 
compasse  or  Mariner's  Card,  being  guided 
onely  by  the  tracks  of  dead  Indians' 
carkasses  floating  upon  the  seas. 

"The  tyrannic  which  the  Spanish 
exercise  over  the  Indians  is  one  of  the 
cruellest  things  that  is  in  the  World. 
There  is  no  hell  in  this  life  nor  other 
desperate  state  in  this  World  that  may 
be  compared  unto  it." 

Again  and  again  the  Indians  rebelled. 
With  hideous  cruelties  they  tortured  the 
Spaniards  who  fell  into  their  hands, 
pouring  molten  gold  down  their  throats, 
crying,  "Eat!  eat  gold,  Christian!"  But 
the  arms  and  discipline  of  the  Spaniards 
were  in  the  end  always  victorious. 

The  behaviour  of  the  Friars  during 
this  period  is  of  everlasting  credit  to 
them  and  to  their  Church.  Massacred 
in  numbers  by  the  infuriated  natives, 
who  could  not  differentiate  between  the 
monks  and  the  savage  oppressors  of 

ii 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  same  race,  scorned  and  bullied  by 
the  soldiers  and  the  adventurers,  these 
devoted  men  did  their  best  to  alleviate 
the  lot  of  the  Indians.  Las  Casas 
reached  the  Emperor  Charles  V,  and 
pleaded,  at  first  in  vain,  the  cause  of 
Christianity.  Father  Roderic  Minaia 
appealed  to  the  Pope,  who  loosed  the 
thunders  of  a  Bull  upon  the  oppressors. 
Armed  with  the  papal  mandate,  the 
Friars  again  approached  Charles  V, 
who  was  at  last  persuaded  to  send  an 
honest  man  to  investigate.  Upon  the 
latter's  report,  he  decreed  at  once  the 
freedom  of  all  Indian  slaves.  Despite  the 
seriousness  of  the  blow  to  Spanish  indus- 
tries in  the  New  World  and  the  protests 
of  his  officials,  it  was  executed  with  a  fair 
degree  of  loyalty.  The  lot  of  the  Indians  was 
never  again  quite  what  it  had  been  before. 

During  the  half  century  after  the  dis- 
covery the  Spaniards  had  been  mostly  on 
islands  or  near  the  coast.  As  time  went 

12 


The  Conquistadores 

on  they  came  into  touch  with  the  tribes 
of  the  interior. 

The  conquests  of  Mexico,  Peru,  and  New 
Granada  in  turn  poured  millions  of  money 
into  Spain,  firing  the  imagination  of  every 
man.  The  idea  of  a  great  civilized  nation 
in  the  interior  of  South  America,  richer 
than  any  yet  conquered,  started  from  the 
legends  of  the  Indians.  Their  statement 
that  gold  came  from  far  inland  fructified 
readily  in  minds  fallow  to  marvels.  Thus 
sprouted  and  grew  with  tropic  luxuriance 
the  belief  in  El  Dorado. 

In  his  letter  to  Cardinal  Bempo,  the 
chronicler  Oviedo  records  clearly  and  as 
actual  fact  the  existence  of  "  A  great  King, 
bruited  in  those  lands,  covered  with  golden 
powder,  in  such  fashion  that  from  head  to 
foot  he  was  like  a  figure  of  gold,  graven 
by  the  hand  of  a  rare  artificer.  The  gold 
is  stuck  to  his  body  by  an  aromatic  resin. 
But  since  this  would  irk  him  as  he  slept, 
every  night  the  King  bathes  and  every 

13 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

morning  once  more  is  he  gilded,  which 
shows  that  the  Kingdom  of  El  Dorado 
is  marvellously  rich  in  mines." 

A  great  city,  "  Manoa,"  on  the  shores 
of  a  lake  called  Parime,  palaces  with 
columns  of  massive  gold,  soldiers  "armados 
de  piecas  y  joyas  de  oro," — endless  were 
the  details  filling  in  the  picture  of  the 
realm  of  the  Gilded  Man. 

Rumour  was  precise  about  everything 
save  the  location  of  the  city  of  Manoa. 
Some  tales  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
Andes,  in  the  highlands  of  Peru  or  New 
Granada.  Some  in  Guiana,  far  up  the 
Caroni  River,  which  joins  the  Orinoco  just 
before  the  latter  spreads  out  into  the  great 
delta.  When  the  Andes  region  had  been 
crossed,  so  often  and  so  fruitlessly,  the 
hopes  of  the  goldseekers  turned  and  still 
clung  to  the  location  on  the  Caroni  of 
which  Milton  wrote  : — 

"Guiana,  whose  great  city  Geryon's  sons 
Call  El  Dorado." 

14 


The  Conquistadores 

The  famous  map  of  Hondius  showed 
definitely  in  Guiana  the  huge  lake  of 
Parime  and  the  Golden  City  of  Manoa 
on  its  border. 

The  first  expedition  up  the  Orinoco  was 
that  of  Diego  de  Ordez.     He  was  one  of 
the  Conquistadores  of  Mexico,  granted  the 
right   to   bear   on    his   coat   of    arms   the 
Burning   Mountain  of  Popocatapetl.     He 
was  named  Adelantado  of  all  the  country 
he    could   conquer   between   the   Amazon 
and  the  Welzers'  concession  in  Venezuela. 
In   his  venture  he  saw  "  emeralds  as  big 
as  a  man's  fist."     Far  up  the  Orinoco  he 
heard  of  "a  mighty  king  with  one  eye,  and 
animals  like  deer  that  are  ridden  as  horses." 
Along    the    Caura    he    saw   natives   who 
anointed   themselves   with    turtle   fat  and 
powdered  themselves  with  glittering  mica. 
His   trip   gave  a  considerable   impetus  to 
the  belief  that  here  at  last  was  to  be  found 
El  Dorado. 

Next  came,  with  a  great  expedition  of 

15 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

two   thousand,  Don  Antonio  de  Berrio  y 
Oruna,  son-in-law  of  the  Conquistador  of 
New     Granada,     Ximinez     de     Quesada. 
Landowners    in    Spain    sold    their   family 
estates    to   accompany   him.     Ten  secular 
ecclesiastics  and  twelve  Observantin  monks 
joined    the  adventurer.     The    cacique  of 
Marequita,   which   bordered    the    Orinoco 
near  where  San  Felix  now  stands,  came  to 
Cumana  at  about  the  same  time  with  a  mass 
of  golden   images  to  trade.     This    event 
and  the  story  of  one  Juan  Martinez,  who 
said  that  he  had  been  captured  by  Indians 
on  the  expedition  of  Ordez  and  had  been 
taken    from    town    to    town  until  he  had 
actually  reached  "  the  Imperial  and  Golden 
City  of  Manoa"  and  had  seen  the  "  Inca  of 
Guiana,"  inflamed  the  party  to  the  highest 
point.     De     Berrio's     expedition     started 
from   Marequita  southward  into  Paragua. 
Thirty      men     of    the     two     thousand 
ultimately     straggled     back.       De    Berrio 
retired,   crushed   and   bankrupt   in   every- 
16 


The  Conquistadores 

thing  save  hope,    to   Trinidad,   and   made 
his  headquarters  in  Port  of  Spain. 

Here,  in  1594,  there  appeared  an  Eng- 
lishman, Captain  Widdhon,  who  landed 
and  made  many  inquiries,  to  the  great 
suspicion  of  the  Governor.  Eight  of  his 
sailors  disappeared  in  Trinidad.  Captain 
Widdhon  left  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 
come.  He  was  the  scout  for  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh. 

On  March  22,  1595,  with  an  imposing 
force,  Elizabeth's  favourite  himself  cast 
anchor  outside  of  Port  of  Spain.  Should 
he  attack  the  Spaniards,  breaking  his 
Queen's  peace,  or  sail  on  ?  Long  and 
serious  was  the  discussion  with  his  officers. 
Then  he  took  his  decision.  "  To  depart 
four  hundred  or  five  hundred  miles  from 
my  ships  and  leave  a  garrison  in  my  back, 
interested  in  the  same  enterprise,  which 
daily  expected  supplies  from  Spain,  I 
should  savour  very  much  of  an  ass."  He 
ordered  an  immediate  attack. 

c  17 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

On  the  excuse  that  the  eight  missing 
sailors  had  been  murdered  by  the  Spaniards 
Raleigh  surprised  Port  of  Spain  and 
slaughtered  its  garrison.  Then,  sending 
Captain  Colfield  with  sixty  men  and  follow- 
ing himself  with  forty,  he  marched  to 
St.  Joseph,  stormed  it,  and  captured  the 
Governor,  de  Berrio. 

The  latter  was  carried  up  the  Orinoco  in 
the  hope  that  he  might  be  able  to  supply 
information.  This  first  expedition  of 
Raleigh's  was,  however,  an  utter  failure. 
The  falls  of  the  Caroni  prevented  a  passage 
up  its  stream.  The  tropic  jungle  was  im- 
penetrable. Raleigh  returned  to  Trinidad, 
released  de  Berrio,  and  sailed  sadly  home. 

De  Berrio  moved  over  to  San  Thome, 
now  Los  Castillos,  on  the  Orinoco,  and 
established  a  settlement  preparatory  to 
another  march  inland.  Shortly  afterwards 
he  died,  worn  out  with  hardship,  defeat, 
and  disappointment.  Twice  more  Raleigh 
sent  out  expeditions — one  in  1596,  under 
18 


The  Conquistadores 

Lawrence  Keymis,  another  in  1597. 
Despite  Von  Humboldt's  polite  sneer, 
Raleigh  did  actually  find  a  great  gold 
region,  as  the  millions  taken  of  late  years 
from  the  Callao  mine  attest.  Rather  too 
imaginatively,  however,  he  wrote,  on  his 
return  : — 

"  Every  mountain,  every  stone  in  the 
forests  of  the  Orinoco  shines  like  the 
precious  metals.  If  it  be  not  gold,  it  is  the 
mother  of  gold." 

Meanwhile  word  was  constantly  carried 
to  Europe  of  the  riches  of  Guiana. 
Francis  Sparry,  left  behind  on  Sir 
Walter's  expedition,  captured  by  Spaniards 
and  taken  through  much  of  Guiana, 
drifted  back  to  England. 

"In  the  province  of  Guiana,"  he  testified, 
"  is  much  natural  and  fine  gold,  which 
runneth  between  the  stones  like  veines. 
Of  which  gold  I  had  some  store,  but  now 
the  Spaniard  is  the  better  for  it. 

"Camalaha  is  a  place  where  they  sell 

19 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Women  at  certain  times,  in  the  manner  of 
a  Faire.  In  this  faire,  which  is  to  the 
south  of  Orinoco,  I  bought  eight  young 
women,  the  eldest  whereof  I  thinke  never 
saw  eighteene  yeeres,  fore  one  red-hafted 
knife  which  in  England  cost  mee  one 
halfe-pennie.  I  gave  these  Women  away 
to  certain  Salvages  which  were  my  friends." 
An  alluring  prospect  for  the  adventurous ! 

To  Raleigh  the  Gilded  Man  still  beckoned. 
In  1617,  in  person,  he  led  a  final  search 
for  Manoa.  It  was  a  last  and  a  desperate 
gamble.  Once  more  he  was  to  beard  the 
King  of  Spain.  James  stood  ready  to 
profit  by  success  or  to  disavow  failure. 
On  New  Years  Day,  1618,  Raleigh's  men 
under  Keymis  landed  at  San  Thomd 
A  brave  and  wary  Spaniard,  Geronimo  de 
Grados,  laid  an  ambuscade  for  the  English, 
who  had  intended  to  land  merely,  and 
not  attack  until  next  day. 

"The  common  sort,"  says  Raleigh, 
"were  so  amazed  as  had  not  the  Captains 
20 


The  Conquistadores 

and  some  other  valiant  gentlemen  made 
a  head  and  encouraged  the  rest,  they  had 
all  been  broken  and  cut  to  pieces." 

The  Spaniards,  after  a  sharp  engage- 
ment, fell  back,  and  were  reinforced  by 
a  new  band,  led  by  Diego  Palomegue,  the 
Governor.  Young  Walter  Raleigh,  son  of 
the  Admiral,  rallied  the  English.  He 
was  shot  by  an  arquebuse  ball,  and,  as  he 
stood  reeling,  was  felled  with  the  butt-end 
of  a  gun. 

"  Go  on :  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
me  and  prosper  your  enterprise ! "  he  cried 
to  Keymis.  These  were  his  last  words. 

The  Spaniards  were  broken  at  last ;  their 
refuge,  the  monastery  of  St.  Francis, 
was  stormed,  and  Raleigh's  men  sailed  up 
the  Orinoco  as  far  as  the  Narrows,  where 
Ciudad  Bolivar  now  stands.  Sir  Walter 
landed  at  Soledad,  climbed  the  hill,  looked 
over  the  Orinoco  stretching  away  into 
the  west  like  a  silver  ribbon,  and  then 
turned  back. 

21 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Keymis  committed  suicide  after  the 
failure  of  this  expedition.  Sir  Walter 
was  executed  on  October  29,  1618. 
King  James  wavered,  but  the  Spanish 
King  was  insistent  upon  his  enemy's 
death.  "Tis  a  sharp  medicine,  but  a 
sound  cure  for  all  diseases,"  Sir  Walter 
said  as  he  felt  the  axe's  edge. 

Spain  strengthened  her  grip  on  the 
continent.  She  gradually  worked  inland, 
fighting  and  conquering  the  Indians, 
attacked  herself  at  sea  by  adventurous 
pirates  and  admirals.  Her  dominion  in 
Venezuela  was  never  again,  however, 
seriously  challenged  by  a  European  foe. 

With  Trinidad  the  history  was  different. 
The  island  was  surprised  in  1640  by 
the  Dutch,  who  "  found  no  booty " ;  in 
1672  by  Sir  Tobias  Bridges,  who  came 
over  from  Barbados  to  assault  it.  In 
1677  the  French  under  the  Marquis  de 
Maintenon,  aided  by  some  pirates  from 
Tortuga,  made  a  landing  and  carried  away 
22 


The  Conquistadores 

as  plunder  a  hundred  thousand  "pieces- 
of-eight."  In  1687  the  Carib  Indians  re- 
volted, murdering  the  Governor  and  most 
of  the  whites  on  the  island.  In  1690 
Levassor  de  la  Touche,  and  in  1716 
Blackbeard  Tench  the  pirate,  attacked 
Trinidad.  Small  wonder  that  in  1773 
only  162  male  adult  whites  were  recorded 
as  living  on  the  island. 

A  French  resident  of  Grenada,  M.  de 
Saint-Laurent,  became,  in  1778,  the  real 
founder  of  Trinidad.  So  impressed  was 
he  with  its  fertility  that  he  bought  a  large 
area  of  land,  drew  up  a  Bill  of  Rights, 
or  Cedula,  got  it  approved  by  Spain 
in  1783,  and  secured  the  appointment  of 
an  excellent  Governor,  Don  Jos6  Maria 
Chacon. 

In  five  years  the  population  jumped  to 
10,422,  mostly  French  settlers  from 
the  neighbouring  West  India  Islands. 
Toussaint  TOuverture's  rebellion  of  1793 
in  Haiti  added  another  set  of  French 

23 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

refugees,  and  in  1795  still  others  came  from 
the  West  India  Islands,  newly  captured 
by  the  British. 

In  1797  a  British  fleet  sailed  through 
the  Dragon's  Mouth  with  twenty  vessels 
and  seven  thousand  men  for  the  conquest  of 
Trinidad.  Sir  Ralph  Abercrombie's  force 
so  overwhelmingly  exceeded  Governor 
Chacon's  that  the  latter  burned  his  ships 
and  surrendered  without  firing  a  shot. 
Colonel  Thomas  Picton  was  left  behind  as 
Governor. 

Whip  in  hand,  Picton  stalked  grimly 
into  the  easygoing  administrative  offices 
of  the  island.  In  front  of  the  Government 
House  stood  his  gallows  for  grafters.  The 
road-contractors  trembled  for  his  grim  un- 
heralded visits.  The  cowed  thieves  feared 
his  police  hardly  less  than  his  police  feared 
their  iron  taskmaster.  A  population  in- 
creased from  17,000  in  1793  to  29,000  in 
1803  witnessed  the  order  and  prosperity 
which  his  man-of-war  discipline  produced. 
24 


The  Conquistadores 

His  reward  was  an  impeachment  for 
malfeasance  in  office.  Acquitted,  but 
under  a  cloud  of  suspicion  as  bitterly 
unjust  as  history  has  ever  recorded, 
Picton  left  to  fight  through  the  Peninsular 
War  with  Wellington,  and  to  perish 
gloriously  at  Waterloo  at  the  head  of  the 
"thin  redjine"  of  three  thousand  which 
repulsed  D'Erlon's  sixteen  thousand 
charging  grenadiers. 

The  frigate  "Victory,"  with  a  lean, 
one-eyed  Admiral  on  her  deck,  sailed  by  in 
1805.  She  was  flagship  of  thirteen  British 
men-of-war  that  had  hounded  twenty-eight 
French  and  Spanish  vessels  from  the 
Mediterranean  to  the  Caribbean.  The 
inhabitants  of  Port  of  Spain,  taking  his 
fleet  for  an  invading  enemy,  got  under 
arms.  But  the  Admiral  sailed  out  anew 
to  Martinique  and  back  again  across  the 
Atlantic,  still  wolfishly  pursuing  the  allied 
fleet.  He  met  it  at  Trafalgar."^* 

Thus  passed  the  last  of  the  English 

25 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

conquerors,  leaving  Trinidad  to  grow 
into  the  ways  of  peace.  Venezuela  had 
not  the  good  fortune  of  the  island. 
She  had  still  to  live  through  tempestuous 
years. 

In  the  latter  part  of  March,  1817,  a  score 
of  horsemen  were  riding  towards  An- 
gostura from  the  northern  sea-coast,  some 
on  mules,  some  on  mangy  horses.  Most 
were  sallow-skinned  Creoles  clad  in  civilian 
dress,  sombrero  on  head,  sword  and  pistol 
at  the  belt ;  a  few  wore  dingy  uniforms. 
One,  a  gigantic  negro,  bore  the  insignia  of 
an  officer  of  the  Black  Republic  of  Haiti. 
Two,  military  of  bearing,  keen  of  eye,  had 
the  weather-worn  red  of  the  British  Grena- 
diers ;  half  a  dozen  barefoot  peons  in 
ragged  ponchos  rode  behind  with  the 
sumpter  burros. 

A  slight  figure  in  faded  blue  regimentals 

faced    with      red     led    the    band.      Only 

thirty-four  years  old,  he  looked  fifty.     His 

dark   and   wrinkled   face   was   drawn   and 

26 


The  Conquistadores 

puckered.  Hardship,  dissipation,  and  the 
bitterest  disappointment  had  left  their 
marks. 

Born  of  a  noble  and  wealthy  Caracas 
family,  he  had  been  sent  to  Europe  at  the 
age  of  sixteen.  He  had  visited  France, 
then  under  the  Consulate,  still  vibrant  with 
the  recent  revolution  ;  he  had  played  and 
beaten  at  tennis  the  Prince  of  the  Asturias, 
against  whom  as  Ferdinand  VII  of  Spain 
he  was  now  in  a  duel  to  the  death  for  the 
freedom  of  South  America.  He  had 
married  at  the  age  of  nineteen  and  been 
widowed  within  the  year.  He  had  re- 
turned to  Paris  and  broken  his  health  in 
wild  living.  At  Rome  he  had  refused  to 
kiss  the  Cross  on  Pius  VII's  shoe.  He 
had  returned  to  Caracas  and  had  taken 
part  in  the  Junta  which  drove  out  Emperan, 
the  Spanish  Captain-General,  forced  the 
establishment  of  a  National  Congress,  and 
drafted  the  declaration  of  Rights  of  April 
19,  1810 — celebrated  now  as  the  Vene- 

27 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

zuelan  national  holiday.  He  had  gone  to 
England  and  had  brought  back  the 
banished  General  Miranda.  He  had  with 
his  "Societa  Patriotica"  secured  the 
Declaration  of  Independence  of  July  5, 
1811.  He  had  fought  against  the 
Royalists,  been  overwhelmingly  beaten, 
and  fled  to  Cartagena.  He  had  returned 
while  Spain  was  in  the  throes  of  conflict 
with  Napoleon,  and  entered  Caracas  amid 
delirious  enthusiasm  in  a  chariot  before 
which  girls  strewed  roses,  hailing  him  "  El 
Libertador."  He  had  been  defeated  once 
more  and  had  been  obliged  to  flee  to 
Jamaica.  A  negro  spy,  hired  to  assassinate 
him,  had  killed  his  secretary  by  mistake. 
Now  at  length,  by  the  aid  of  a  Dutch  ship- 
owner and  the  President  of  the  Negro 
Republic  of  Haiti,  he  had  been  enabled  to 
come  back  on  this  final  attempt  at  South 
American  liberation. 

"A  monkey "("  Mono")  he  was  once  nick- 
named, and  not  unlike  a  monkey  he  seemed 
28 


The  Conquistadores 

with  his  thin  little  body  and  his  wrinkled 
face.  But  one  look  from  his  dark  brooding 
eyes  told  of  the  fiery,  unconquerable  soul 
that  burned  in  the  slight  frame.  The 
man  was  Simon  Bolivar,  the  Washington 
of  Spanish  America.  On  this  March  day 
in  1817,  heading  his  tattered  little  cavalcade, 
he  was  passing  through  the  anguish  of  his 
Valley  Forge. 

The  sky  behind  was  reddened  with  the 
fires  of  Barcelona.  The  four  hundred  de- 
voted troops  left  to  hold  the  Franciscan 
monastery  had  been  butchered  to  a  man, 
and  the  Spaniards  were  giving  the  city  to 
the  sack.  One  thousand  of  the  towns- 
people had  been  massacred,  some  on  the 
altar  steps.  Women  and  children  were 
being  hunted  through  the  streets.  Dogs 
roamed  the  by-ways  eating  their  fill  of  the 
neglected  bodies. 

Nor  was  Barcelona  alone.  Town  after 
town  that  had  given  the  Revolutionist 
harbour  had  fallen  to  the  Royalists  and 

29 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

had  suffered  a  like  fate.  Boves,  the 
butcher,  condemned  as  a  "ladron  del  mar/' 
a  renegade  Revolutionist  leading  a  band 
of  desperadoes  which  the  Spaniards  them- 
selves nicknamed  "  The  Corps  of  Hell  "  ; 
Rosete,  with  his  branding-iron  "  R  "  for  the 
foreheads  of  Republicans ;  Morales,  whom 
even  Boves  had  called  "  Atrocious  " — these 
were  all  in  the  pay  of  Spain.  Before  them 
fell  the  town  of  Acumare.  Its  streets 
were  left  a  shambles  of  the  dead  and  the 
dying.  Old  men,  women,  and  children  lay 
with  the  rest.  Valencia  surrendered  upon 
the  oath  of  Boves,  sworn  in  the  presence 
of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  to  respect  the 
lives  of  everybody,  yet  as  soon  as  arms 
had  been  surrendered,  the  Governor, 
ninety  of  the  leading  citizens,  sixty-four 
officers,  and  three  hundred  and  ten  troops 
were  slaughtered.  Caracas  surrendered 
to  Boves  on  similar  terms,  which  were 
similarly  observed.  Boves  issued  an  order 
that  any  who  had  conspired  against  Spain 
30 


The  Conquistadores 

should  be  shot  and  the  slaughter  re- 
commenced. Aragua  was  stormed  and 
some  three  thousand  townspeople  were 
massacred. 

Now  Barcelona,  the  last  of  Venezuela's 
northern  cities,  had  fallen,  and  all  that 
were  left  to  follow  Bolivar  were  fifteen 
officers  and  a  few  peons  as  their  servants. 
Help  from  abroad  there  was  almost  none. 
President  Madison  had  issued  an  order 
forbidding  any  aid  from  United  States 
citizens  to  the  struggling  Revolutionists. 
Great  Britain  stood  apathetically  by  her 
ally,  Spain.  The  feeble  little  Negro 
Republic  of  Haiti  alone  had  lent  support  J 
in  men  and  money,  asking  in  return  only 
Bolivar's  promise,  which  he  loyally  kept, 
to  give  freedom  to  the  slaves  of  Venezuela. 

In  the  Colonies  themselves  even,  piti- 
fully few  were  his  sympathizers.  The  white 
population  in  Venezuela,  but  two  hundred 
thousand  in  number,  was  practically  the 
only  element  in  the  country  interested  in 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

any  way  in  the  outcome  of  the  struggle. 
These  native-born  Creoles,  tyrannized  over 
by  the  arbitrary  power  of  the  Viceroys  and 
Spanish  officials,  excluded  from  office  and 
emolument,  while  their  trade  and  manu- 
facturing were  garrotted  by  prohibitive 
laws,  were  in  general  dissatisfied  with 
Spanish  misrule,  but  were  averse  to  the 
fearful  sacrifice  which  resistance  entailed. 
The  King  had  refused  to  the  Venezuelans 
permission  to  found  a  University  in 
Maracaibo,  because,  in  the  opinion  of  his 
Fiscal,  "it  was  unsuitable  to  promote 
learning  in  Southern  America,  where  the 
inhabitants  appeared  destined  by  nature  to 
work  in  the  mines."  The  making  of  wine 
and  oil,  the  growth  of  almonds  or  grapes, 
the  manufacture  of  cloth,  trade  with 
the  outside  world  or  even  with  any 
Spanish  port,  other  than  Seville,  were 
prohibited.  Oppressed  by  these  abuses, 
the  native  whites  still  refrained  from 
rallying  in  any  great  number  to  Bolivar. 
32 


The  Conquistadores 

The  Indians,  two  hundred  and  seven 
thousand  in  number,  stigmatized  as  "a 
race  of  monkeys,  filled  with  vice  and 
ignorance,  automatons  unworthy  of  repre- 
senting or  of  being  represented " ;  the 
negro  slaves,  sixty  thousand  in  number, 
and  the  mixed  bloods,  forty-three  thousand 
souls  in  all,  though  their  grievances  were 
far  greater  than  those  of  the  native  whites, 
for  the  most  part  simply  followed  as  they 
were  led  or  paid. 

With  but  a  small  portion  of  the  Creole 
population  as  its  support,  the  Revolution 
was  imperilled  he  ^rly  by  the  insatiable 
vanities  and  jealou  ies  of  the  rival  leaders. 
The  Libertador  had  heard  ring  in  his  ears 
the  cry  of  the  mob  at  Guiria,  "  Down  with 
Bolivar — up  with  Marino  and  Bermudez!" 
Would  liberty  never  come?  Was  this 
river  of  blood  all  that  the  years  of  devoted 
effort  were  to  bring  ?  Bolivar  at  the  front 
of  his  twenty  men  hung  his  head  in  the 
agony  of  defeat  and  failure. 

D  33 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

' '  Halt,  halt!"  whispered  one  of  the 
riders  suddenly ;  "  what  is  that  glitter 
beyond  the  trees?" 

A  horse  neighed  to  the  right  of  the  party. 

"An  ambuscade!"  cried  hoarsely  the 
first  of  the  red-coated  officers. 

The  drooping  figure  of  Bolivar  stiffened, 
the  dark  eyes  flashed,  he  turned  in  his 
saddle.  Then  in  a  voice  of  thunder  he  cried  : 

"  Columns  extend  right  and  left !  Attack 
on  both  flanks." 

It  was  an  order  to  an  imaginary  force 
behind.  The  officers  of  his  escort  repeated 
the  order  and  rode  forward,  discharging 
their  pistols.  The  ambuscade  melted 
away.  The  Spaniards,  inferring  a 
superior  force,  had  taken  flight. 

The  insurgent  party  continued  south- 
ward. As  it  marched,  here  and  there  wild 
llaneros  and  peons  were  drafted  in  by 
payment,  promise,  or  impressment.  With 
a  force  swelled  to  some  hundreds,  Bolivar 
reached  the  Orinoco.  In  the  city  of 
34 


'••  -.  :*•:•:••  '•  .*:• 

*••<»*»»•»    »        •  *  •    »    ',  »    •»»•*• 


01   o 

py    ^.^ 

o 

^ 

w 
c< 
P 
fe 
t) 
33 

a 
ffi 

H 

fe 

o 

S5 

o 

1 

M 

s 
g 


The  Conquistadores 

Angostura,  to  be  later  renamed  in  his 
honour  Ciudad  Bolivar,  he  surprised  and 
blockaded  the  feeble  Spanish  garrison. 

Piar,  the  mulatto  chief  of  a  band  of 
Republican  cut-throats  who  had  combined 
patriotism  with  profit  by  seizing  the 
persons  and  property  of  the  Capuchin 
Friars  along  the  Caroni,  now  joined 
Bolivar.  The  latter  sent  him  to  attack 
San  Felix.  The  bloodthirsty  but  efficient 
half-breed  defeated  the  Spanish  garrison 
and  took  prisoner  the  Governor,  seventy- 
five  officers,  and  two  hundred  men,  all 
of  whom  he  remorselessly  slaughtered. 

Fearing  now  lest  the  monks  whom  Piar 
had  captured  would  embarrass  his  move- 
ments, Bolivar  sent  a  message  to  one  of 
the  mulatto's  officers  in  charge,  saying : — 

"  Transport  the  prisoners  to  La 
Divina  Pastora." 

The  officer,  not  knowing  of  the  town 
thus  named,  and  supposing  that  he 
was  to  send  the  monks  to  "the  Divine 

35 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Shepherdess"  in  heaven,  forthwith  mas- 
sacred them  all.  Neither  of  these  atro- 
cities was  punished.  Of  such  deeds  was 
the  war.  Murder  marched  alike  with 
Royalist  and  Revolutionist. 

On  July  i yth  the  weak  Spanish  forces 
abandoned  Angostura  and  Los  Castillos. 
The  Orinoco  was  in  the  possession  of  the 
Revolutionists.  Bolivar's  joy  was  intense. 
The  capture  of  Angostura  marked  the 
turning-point  in  this  struggle,  as  the 
capture  of  Trenton  had  signalled  the  turn 
of  the  tide  for  Washington. 

A  few  days  after  the  capture  of  Angos- 
tura, Bolivar's  staff  met  in  the  thick-walled 
house  which  lodged  the  Libertador.  The 
members  of  his  provisional  Cabinet  were 
there — Zea,  Martinez,  Brion,  Colonel  Wil- 
son, commander  of  the  "  Red  Hussars," 
the  English  Dr.  Moore. 

A  map  lay  on  the  table  before  them, 
blue  pins  locating  the  Royalist  troops. 
These  occupied  Cartagena,  Valencia, 
36 


The  Conquistadores 

Caracas,  Barcelona,  the  cities  all  along 
the  north  coast.  A  few  red  pins  showed 
the  scattered  centres  of  the  Revolutionists  : 
Santander  in  New  Granada  ;  Marino  and 
Bermudez  on  the  north-east,  opposite 
Trinidad  ;  Arismendi  on  the  Island  of  Mar- 
garita. What  was  to  be  the  next  move  ? 

11 1  propose  that  we  stay  here  and  meet 
the  troops  sent  against  us/'  suggested  Zea. 

Colonel  Wilson  objected.  "  The  Spaniards 
will  beat  Marino  and  Bermudez  one  after 
the  other  and  then  overwhelm  us." 

"  The  Colonel  is  right,"  insisted  Bolivar. 
"  We  must  strike  while  they  are  separated." 

"  Join  Bermudez  and  Marino  in  the  north- 
east," counselled  Martinez  ;  "  march  west- 
ward along  the  coast  and  attack  Morillo. 
He  had  only  seven  hundred  Spaniards  on 
the  island  when  he  attacked  Arismendi." 

Bolivar  shook  his  head.  "  Better  fight 
alone  than  with  them.  They  will  sacrifice 
me,  the  Republic,  and  anything  else  to 
their  vanity  and  love  of  power.  You  know 

37 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

how  Bermudez  drew  his  sword  on  me  at 
Guiria  and  the  plots  to  kill  me." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment ;  the 
fate  of  Spanish  South  America  hung  on  the 
decision.  A  rattle  of  hoofs  sounded  out- 
side. A  rough  voice  demanded  admission. 

"  I  would  see  General  Bolivar ;  I  come 
from  Uncle  Paez,"  called  the  mounted 
figure. 

"  Bring  him  here,"  said  Bolivar. 

A  half-breed  llanero,  barefooted,  clad  in 
dirty  cotton  shirt  and  trousers,  his  head 
thrust  through  a  great  blue  poncho, 
shambled  in  before  the  Council. 

" Which  is  Bolivar?"  he  asked;  the 
leader  was  pointed  out,  and  the  llanero 
approached  and  put  his  hand  familiarly 
on  the  officer's  shoulder — the  undisciplined 
plainsman's  greeting. 

"  Uncle   Paez   sends   me   to  you  to  tell 
that   the   unconquered    Bravos  de   Apure, 
with   a   thousand  llaneros,  will  ride   with 
you  against  the  Spaniard." 
38 


The  Conquistadores 

The  members  of  the  Council  looked  at 
each  other.  Paez  with  his  vaqueros,  roving 
over  the  boundless  plains  of  the  interior, 
from  which  for  four  years  he  had  been 
harrying  the  Spanish  outposts,  was  hardly 
known  to  most  of  these  Caracefios  and 
Margaritans,  though  Bolivar  had  heard  of 
his  exploits  in  New  Granada. 

Bolivar  seized  the  map.  "  Where  is 
Paez?"  he  cried. 

"  By  the  Apure,  near  San  Fernando," 
said  the  peon. 

In  a  flash  the  Libertador's  mind  was 
made  up.  He  turned  to  the  llanero : 

41  Ride  to  General  Paez  and  say  I  march 
to  join  him." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  pointed  to  the 
map.  "See,  senores,  here  lies  our  route. 
We  hold  in  Angostura  the  gateway  to 
the  Orinoco.  As  far  as  Santa  F6  de 
Bogota  there  is  no  force  to  oppose  us 
along  the  line  of  the  Orinoco  and  Apure. 
We  are  in  the  rear  of  the  enemy,  whose 

39 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

strength  is  in  the  coast  towns.  Here  we 
have  cattle  and  horses.  Here  we  can  raise 
recruits  from  the  llaneros,  who  care  not 
for  whom  they  fight  and  who  are  for  us 
now  that  Boves  is  gone.  If  beaten,  we 
can  retreat  like  Tartars  to  the  immeasurable 
plains.  We  will  march  to  Apure  and 
join  Paez" — he  hesitated.  "  Morillo  will 
come  down  thus  from  the  North  in  haste. 
We  will  meet  him" — his  finger  halted, 
then  pointed  to  the  plain  near  Calabozo, 
"we  will  meet  him  here.  Now  gather 
our  forces  and  organize.  This  is  the  death- 
grapple." 

Recruits  flocked  to  Bolivar's  standard.  To 
pay  them  he  confiscated  the  property  of  all 
Spaniards.  The  blood-stained  Piar,  found 
plotting  against  Bolivar,  as  Lee  against 
Washington,  was  more  summarily  treated. 
He  was  shot  and  his  force  was  attached  to 
Bolivar's  own.  With  two  thousand 
infantry  and  one  thousand  cavalry  the 
leader  started  from  Angostura  on  the  3ist 
40 


The  Conquistadores 

December,  1817,  up  the  Orinoco.  Bolivar 
was  joined  on  the  way  by  his  fugitive 
lieutenant,  Zaraza,  and  a  remnant  of  men. 
On  January  3ist,  he  united  with  General 
Paez  and  added  one  thousand  cavalry  and 
two  hundred  and  fifty  infantry  to  his 
army. 

Together  they  marched  against  Morillo. 
At  El  Dimante  the  Apure  River  barred 
their  way.  If  it  were  not  passed  their 
sudden  attack  on  Morillo  would  be 
checked,  and  the  Spaniard  could  rally  his 
forces.  Moored  to  the  opposite  bank  was 
a  Spanish  gunboat,  three  flat-bottomed 
flecheras,  and  several  canoes.  Bolivar 
paced  up  and  down  nervously. 

"You  have  brought  me  here,  General 
Paez ;  how  will  you  get  me  across  ?  "  he 
asked  querulously. 

"  On  those  flecheras  over  there,"  said 
Paez  nonchalantly. 

Bolivar  looked  after  him  in  amazement. 
Paez  had  already  gone  to  his  llaneros. 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"We  must  have  those  flecheras, 
children,"  he  cried ;  "  who  will  come  with 
Uncle  Paez  and  capture  them  ? " 

"  Choose  whom  you  want,  Uncle,"  was 
the  answering  shout. 

Fifty  llaneros  he  picked  out.  On  horse- 
back, lance  in  hand,  they  entered  the 
stream  and  swam  into  the  current.  Two 
men  were  seized  by  caimans  and  dragged 
below  as  Bolivar's  force  breathlessly 
watched  them.  The  forty-eight  reached 
the  flecheras  and  the  gunboat,  the 
Spaniards  too  surprised  to  resist  seriously. 
In  a  tumult  of  triumph  the  boats  were 
sailed  across  the  river.  On  February  i2th, 
Bolivar  appeared  before  the  surprised 
Morillo  near  Calabozo.  The  small 
Spanish  force  was  attacked,  beaten,  an< 
massacred  without  quarter. 

Then  the  fortunes  of  war  turned  against 

the   Libertador.     He   was   driven  back  to 

the    Orinoco.       But    reinforcements     had 

begun  to  come  in  now  that  he  held  firmly 

42 


The  Conquistadores 

the  great  river  artery.  Several  hundred 
blacks  from  Haiti  joined  him.  An  Irish 
Legion  came,  commanded  by  General 
Devereux,  and  a  British  officer,  "  English  " 
by  name,  one  of  Wellington's  trusted  sub- 
ordinates, arranged  for  the  equipment  and 
shipment  of  twelve  hundred  good  troops. 
Most  of  these  were  soldiers  of  fortune, 
veterans  left  without  congenial  occupation 
at  the  close  of  the  Napoleonic  wars. 

Notable  among  the  volunteers  was 
Francis  M.  Drexel,  of  Philadelphia,  an 
Austrian  portrait  painter,  who  later,  with 
Bolivar's  backing,  was  to  found  the  great 
banking  house  of  which  John  Pierpont 
Morgan  is  now  the  head. 

By  the  end  of  1818  Bolivar  had  won  out 
sufficiently  to  issue  a  call  for  the  Congress 
of  Angostura  to  meet  on  January  i,  1819, 
to  frame  a  Republican  form  of  government 
and  replace  the  military  dictatorship. 

The  magnificent  dream  of  the  Libertador 
now  took  shape.  It  was  to  erect  upon  the 

43 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

ruins  of  Spanish  power  a  great  centralized 
Republic,  extending  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific,  from  the  Caribbean  Sea  to  the 
valley  of  the  Amazon,  covering  all  of 
Northern  South  America.  Against  the 
party  that  desired  to  carve  up  this  vast 
territory  into  a  number  of  small  sovereign 
States  loosely  confederated,  Bolivar  threw 
the  whole  weight  of  his  vast  influence. 
He  pleaded  before  the  Congress  :  "  I  have 
been  obliged  to  beg  you  to  adopt  centraliza- 
tion and  the  union  of  all  the  States  in  a 
Republic  one  and  indivisible." 

The  Congress  wavered  and  then  sided 
with  Bolivar.  There  was  decreed  a  unified 
Republic,  including  what  are  now  the 
J  Republics  of  Venezuela,  Colombia,  and 
Ecuador.  Of  this  Empire,  named  Greater 
Colombia,  Bolivar  was  chosen  the  first 
President. 

The  ideal  of  the  Libertador  had 
triumphed.  But  the  bulk  of  this  domain 
was  yet  to  be  conquered.  The  first  assault 
44 


The  Conquistadores 

was  planned  against  the  Spaniards  in  the 
north-west,  in  New  Granada. 

Here  the  flames  of  resistance  had  been 
kept  alight  by  General  Santander,  with 
whose  ragged  band  it  was  Bolivar's 
immediate  purpose  to  unite.  By  the 
middle  of  June,  1819,  this  preliminary 
move  had  been  successfully  taken. 

But  the  Andes  had  yet  to  be  crossed,  and 
at  the  worst  time  of  the  year.  The  passage 
of  the  Cordilleras  with  a  tattered  and 
steadily  diminishing  handful  of  famished 
men  was  an  act  of  desperate  courage.  It 
meant  four  weeks  of  weary  climbing  over 
snow-capped  peaks  and  through  freezing 
torrents.  The  road  traversed  by  the  poor 
wretches  was  marked  by  crosses  in  memory 
of  those  who  had  perished  in  the  snow 
sierras.  But  beyond  these  awful  moun- 
tains lay  the  smiling  plains  of  New 
Granada,  and  its  populace  was  friendly  to 
the  Patriot  cause. 

Disregarding  all  recognized  rules  of  the 

45 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

game  of  war,  Bolivar,  who  was  in  terrible 
need  of  provisions  and  arms,  determined 
to  leave  the  enemy  across  his  line  of 
communications  and  make  direct  for  the 
important  town  of  Tunja.  It  was  taking 
a  risk,  but  a  necessary  risk,  and  one  that 
was  completely  justified  by  the  result. 
For  Barriero,  the  Spanish  general,  con- 
ceiving that  he  must  fight  for  the  defence 
of  Tunja,  gave  Bolivar  battle  at  Boyaea 
and  was  utterly  routed.  Barriero  broke 
his  sword  across  his  knee  and  surrendered, 
with  many  officers  and  some  sixteen 
hundred  men.  The  Patriot  army  had  to 
mourn  the  loss  of  only  thirteen  killed 
and  fifty-three  wounded. 

Everywhere  now  Bolivar  was  victorious. 
He  marched  to  Bogota,  from  which 
Samano,  the  Spanish  Viceroy,  fled. 

Returning  eastward,  he  fought  the  des- 
perate battle  of  Carabobo,  which  finally 
freed  Venezuela  from  the  Spanish  yoke. 
The  dogged  heroism  of  the  British 
46 


The  Conquistadores 

Legion,  which  lost  a  third  of  its  men  and 
two  commanders  in  succession,  saved  the 
day.  As  Bolivar  rode  past  their  shattered 
ranks  that  night  he  hailed  them  "  Sal  - 
vadores  de  mi  patria."  All  of  its  survivors 
were  made  on  the  field  of  battle  members 
of  the  "  Order  of  Liberators." 

On  into  Peru  went  Bolivar,  proclaimed 
Dictator  by  the  inhabitants.  On  the  field 
of  Ayacucho,  while  the  Dictator  was  absent, 
his  second  in  command,  General  Sucre, 
fought  and  won  a  last  great  battle  in  which 
the  Spanish  army  was  completely  routed 
and  dispersed.  The  ground  for  miles  was 
strewn  with  the  silver  helmets  of  the 
Spanish  hussars. 

Ayacucho,  the  death-blow  to  Spanish 
power  in  South  America,  was  the  culminat- 
ing point  of  Bolivar's  career.  Dictator  of 
Peru,  President  of  Greater  Colombia, 
Organizer  of  the  new  State  of  Bolivia, 
his  authority  extended  over  a  territory 
two-thirds  as  large  as  Europe.  He  had 

47 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

indignantly  rejected  all  suggestions  for 
monarchy  and  a  personal  dynasty.  As  the 
Libertador  he  had  fought  to  free,  not  to 
enslave.  For  one  brief  moment  as  splendid 
a  vision  as  man  has  ever  cherished  was  real 
— the  great  South  American  Republic. 

Almost  in  an  hour  the  whole  structure 
fell.  Against  him  rose  the  generals  who 
had  shared  his  glory,  Santander  in  New 
Granada,  Paez  in  Venezuela.  Sucre,  dis- 
satisfied, abandoned  Bolivia.  Peru  de- 
manded the  end  of  the  dictatorship. 
Bolivar's  ungrateful  fellow-countrymen 
cried  out  against  his  inordinate  ambition. 
In  his  home  city  of  Caracas  an  attempt 
was  made  to  assassinate  him. 

Attacked  on  all  sides  by  those  whom 
he  had  befriended  and  raised  to  power, 
Bolivar  resigned  from  the  Presidency  and 
retired  to  Cartagena.  Even  here  the 
enmity  of  jealous  hate  hounded  him.  He 
prepared  to  leave  South  America  for  a 
refuge  in  the  West  India  Islands.  But 
48 


The  Conquistadores 

before  he  could  sail  the  end  had  come. 
Exhausted  by  the  terrible  exertions  of  his 
life  of  warfare,  broken  in  spirit,  bankrupt 
in  hope,  he  died  in  December,  1830,  at  the 
age  of  forty-seven.  So  little  had  he 
personally  profited  by  his  supreme  position 
that  he  had  to  be  buried  at  the  expense 
of  his  friends. 

Thus  ended  the  long  line  of  Conquis- 
tadores who  battled  for  Trinidad  and 
Guiana.  For  each  was  the  draught  of 
bitterness  after  all  his  heroism  and  all  his 
glory.  Columbus  carried  back  to  Spain  in 
irons,  De  Berrio  dead  of  disappointment, 
Raleigh  executed  by  his  treacherous  King, 
Picton  brought  to  trial  for  peculation, 
Nelson  falling  for  a  nation  that  refused  his 
last  prayer,  Bolivar  dying  despised  and 
penniless  in  the  country  he  had  freed, — 
tragedy,  grim  and  relentless,  had  marched 
side  by  side  with  the  Conquistadores. 


49 


II 

TRINIDAD 

HPHE  green  slopes  of  Tobago,  where 
the  shipwreck  of  the  real  Alexander 
Selkirk  inspired  the  "  Robinson  Crusoe" 
of  Defoe,  have  been  left  behind  in  the 
dark  mists  of  the  Caribbean.  Ahead  lies 
a  shadowy  range  of  mountain  peaks,  grow- 
ing every  moment  more  clear  as  the  dawn 
lights  up  their  densely  wooded  sides  and 
outlines  the  trees  that  crown  their  crests. 
A  rush  of  crimson  heralds  the  sun. 
The  hills  to  the  east  slowly  separate  as 
the  steamer  forges  on,  and  a  narrow  strait, 
the  Dragon's  Mouth,  opens  out.  In  the 
distance,  to  starboard,  stretch  Venezuela 
and  the  South  American  mainland.  The 
50 


Trinidad 

island  of  Trinidad,  now  close  at  hand, 
lies  to  port. 

The  dazzling  brilliance  of  the  tropic 
sunrise  sows  the  dark  sea  with  glittering 
flame  points.  We  go  always  nearer  to 
the  land.  Suddenly  a  narrow  passage, 
the  Boco  de  Monos,  appears,  bending 
sharply  to  the  left.  Into  it  the 
"  Marrowijne "  turns.  Through  this 
channel  the  tidal  current  sweeps  with  a 
force  that  has  piled  many  a  ship  upon 
the  impending  cliffs.  The  red-bearded 
Dutch  captain  and  the  first  officer  keep 
anxious  watch,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
bridge.  The  crew  stand  alert  at  their 
stations. 

Gaunt  black  crags  pierced  by  wave- 
hewn  caverns,  festooned  with  vines  which 
droop  to  the  water's  edge,  threaten  on 
either  hand.  Madame  Tetteron's  Tooth,  a 
jagged  rock,  rises  close  to  the  channel. 
Multitudes  of  birds  swarm  out  from  the 
little  island  to  the  right  and  surround 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  ship  with  raucous  cries.  A  pelican, 
resting  on  the  water,  takes  alarm,  awk- 
wardly rises  a  stone' s-throw  distant,  and 
flaps  heavily  away. 

A  few  moments  and  we  are  through 
the  strait  and  into  the  placid  calm  of  the 
protected  bay.  The  ocean  swells  sink 
into  ripples ;  the  tension  of  the  crew 
standing  at  their  stations  slackens  into 
the  relief  of  a  voyage  virtually  finished. 
Captain  Drijver  leaves  the  bridge. 

"We  are  at  anchor  before  Port  of 
Spain  in  an  hour,"  he  calls  to  Miss 
Graham,  a  Trinidadian  returning  from  a 
visit  to  Canada.  An  irrepressible  young 
American,  who  is  slated  for  a  six  months' 
stay  in  a  coast  town  of  Venezuela  as 
manager  of  a  magnesite  quarry,  comes 
up,  camera  in  hand. 

"The  Royal   Dutch    Line   is   all   right, 
Captain,"    he    exclaims,    "but   I   am    not 
going   past   Hatteras   by  sea   again.     I'm 
going  back  by  land." 
52 


Trinidad 

The  seriously-minded  English  Colonial, 
returning  from  two  months  "  at  home " 
to  his  general  merchandise  establishment, 
the  "  Caledonian  Stores"  of  Port  of 
Spain,  solemnly  undertakes  to  instruct 
him  as  to  the  impracticability  of  going 
overland  from  Venezuela  to  New  York. 

"  You  won't  want  to  leave  the  tropics 
at  all,"  volunteers  Grath,  late  serjeant  of 
the  Philippine  Constabulary,  bound  now 
for  the  Barber  Asphalt  Company  works  at 
Pitch  Lake.  "  I  spent  just  one  winter 
in  the  North,  and  then  I  applied  every- 
where for  a  position  that  would  take  me 
back  to  where  it  was  warm." 

Miss  Graham  agrees  with  the  ex- 
serjeant,  but  says  that  it  is  good  to  get 
North  sometimes,  "  to  thicken  one's  blood 
a  bit."  The  six  tank-builders  imported 
from  Oklahoma  look  apathetically  at 
the  shore  where  they  are  to  spend  the 
next  year  constructing  steel  storage-reser- 
voirs for  an  Oil  Fields  Corporation. 

53 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Glittering  green  areas  of  coco-nut  palms 
nestling  at  the  foot  of  the  hill-sides  stand 
out  among  the  variegated  tones  of  the  trees 
on  the  slopes  of  the  peninsula  which 
the  vessel  skirts ;  a  bright  red-and- 
white  roof  peeps  out  from  the  midst  of 
a  banana  plantation ;  flocks  of  gulls, 
fishers,  and  pelicans  pass ;  a  dory  driven 
forward  by  a  swarthy  crew  creeps  along 
the  coast ;  myriads  of  milky  jellyfish  float 
in  the  still  water,  whose  glassy  surface  is 
broken  from  time  to  time  by  the  rush  of 
a  shoal  of  little  fish  pursued  by  sharks, 
whose  triangular  fins  sail  menacingly  past. 

The  golf  course  is  still  laid  out  on 
the  deck,  where,  during  the  six  days 
from  New  York,  Captain  Drijver  has 
held  the  field  against  all  comers,  vic- 
torious because  of  his  matchless  science  in 
sending  the  discs  into  the  "  Marrowijne's  " 
scuppers.  But  now  it  is  deserted.  For 
the  last  meal  before  landing  the  gong 
makes  its  announcement,  and  we  descend. 
54 


Trinidad 

The  irrepressible  American  opens  rather 
early  in  the  day  his  final  bottle  of  the 
ship's  champagne,  as  a  finishing  luxury 
before  his  six  months*  exile.  Grath  tells 
a  last  story  about  a  rheumatic  cripple  in 
the  Philippines,  cured  by  the  appearance 
of  a  Moro  with  a  three-foot  creese,  en- 
deavouring to  obtain  a  pass  into  Paradise 
by  the  slaughter  of  so  convenient  an 
infidel.  Brown,  boss  of  the  tank-building 
gang,  mourns  silently  the  three  men  who 
deserted  on  the  last  jovial  night  in  New 
York  after  he  had  paid  their  passage  from 
Oklahoma.  The  bearded  Dutch  mate, 
sitting  stiffly  at  table  in  his  white  tropical 
uniform,  pays  his  parting  addresses  to 
Miss  Graham. 

It  is  a  hurried  meal,  for  we  are  skirt- 
ing the  hills  of  Trinidad  and  nearing 
port.  Tiny  islands  appear,  with  houses 
perched  on  them  as  on  the  Thousand 
Isles  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  A  sloop  is 
overtaken,  all  sail  set,  moving  with  the 

55 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

breath  of  wind  that  is  stirring.  The 
masts  and  stacks  of  larger  ships  are  seen 
in  the  distance,  and  a  steeple  rises  on  the 
shore.  The  roadstead  comes  into  view, 
and  finally,  with  white  houses  amid  green 
verdure  and  grey  docks  and  the  crowded 
sailing-ships  in  front,  there  is  unveiled 
the  city  of  Port  of  Spain. 

The  Captain  looks  intently  through  his 
binoculars  and  turns  around  to  us. 

"The  bubonic  plague  is  in  Trinidad," 
he  says. 

"  Holy  smoke  ! "  ejaculates  one  of  the 
tank  crew. 

Brown  and  the  drillers  look  disconso- 
lately at  the  shore.  There  is  a  moment's 
silence. 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  alarming  in  the 
plague,"  drawls  Miss  Graham  phlegmatic- 
ally.  "We  are  always  having  cases  here 
— only  one  or  two  among  the  natives, 
however." 

"  Yes,"  says  the  English  resident,  "  but 
56 


Trinidad 

it  means  quarantine.  Jamaica  wants  to 
hurt  our  trade  and  puts  up  quarantine, 
and  then  the  States  quarantine  Panama 
and  you  have  to  play  hide  and  seek 
from  port  to  port  until  you  can  find  one 
where  they  will  let  you  in  and  from 
which  you  can  start  for  your  destination. 
I  knew  some  Venezuelans  who  had  to 
take  a  ship  to  Grenada,  from  Grenada 
to  Jamaica,  and  from  Jamaica  back  to 
Venezuela  to  go  the  hundred  miles  from 
Puerto  Cabello  to  Caracas." 

"The  worst  that  can  happen  is  that 
they  do  not  allow  you  to  return  to  the 
States,"  says  Captain  Drijver  consolingly. 

A  swarm  of  row-boats  nears  the 
"  Marrowijne."  Two  heavy  lighters  bear 
down  on  her  quarter,  great  brown  lateen 
sails  spread :  negroes  in  dilapidated  shirts 
and  abbreviated  trousers  help  the  sails 
with  long  sweeps. 

A  launch  comes  puffing  out  with  sundry 
officials  clad  in  white,  escorted  by  two 

57 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

well-set-up  negroes  in  dark  blue  uniforms 
and  black  straw  hats  bearing  on  the  bands 
"  Trinidad  Constabulary."  The  mail-bags 
are  taken  up  and  piled  on  deck,  together 
with  the  passengers'  trunks  and  bundles. 

A  long  delay  now  occurs.  We  sit 
idly  about  with  belongings  heaped  around 
us  and  wait  and  look  at  the  docks  and 
the  shipping  and  the  water.  At  last  the 
word  is  given.  Passengers,  bags,  and 
baggage  go  down  the  steps  alongside  into 
the  launch,  and  we  steam  ashore. 

The  landing  is  crowded  with  people. 
A  horde  of  avid  porters  jump  on  board 
as  we  touch  and  seize  all  the  luggage 
they  can  find.  Three  girls  are  on  the 
dock  to  greet  Miss  Graham,  a  little  dark 
Venezuelan  to  meet  the  American,  an 
agent  of  the  Oil  Fields  Company  to  guide 
Brown  and  the  tank-builders  to  the  train 
for  New  Brighton.  We  all  jostle  into 
the  custom-house  and  assemble  our 
baggage  on  the  long  tables. 
58 


Trinidad 

Sleepily  a  half-breed  official  pokes 
around  in  the  bags.  If  one  admits  having 
fire-arms  they  go  into  bond  until  a  licence 
is  secured.  All  is  over  in  five  minutes, 
and  you  are  free  of  Trinidad. 

The  gateway  from  the  custom-house 
is  blocked  by  a  disorderly  mass  of 
riotously  vociferating  negro  hackmen, 
strangely  clad  in  raiments  ranging  from 
antique  liveries  to  brown  overalls,  with 
battered  top-hats  or  straw  sombreros 
perched  indifferently  on  their  heads. 
From  them  you  are  rescued  by  a  neatly- 
uniformed  half-breed  chauffeur.  Your 
luggage  is  crowded  onto  his  machine, 
which  gradually  works  clear  of  the  dock 
and  into  Marine  Square,  simmering  be- 
neath the  morning  sun. 

A  hundred-foot  strip  of  lawn  with  trees 
planted  haphazard  along  it  runs  between 
the  roadways  on  either  side.  We  pass 
the  colonnaded  stores  of  the  Trinidad 
merchants,  the  shipping  companies'  offices, 

59 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  quaintly  called  Ice  House  Hotel, 
the  Union  Club  with  its  row  of  chairs 
on  the  terrace,  and  farther  up  the  Roman 
Catholic  Cathedral. 

Into  Frederick  Street  the  automobile 
turns.  The  whole  narrow  roadway  is 
glutted  with  a  motley  swarm  of  many- 
toned  humanity.  Negroes  in  every  sort 
of  garb,  from  trim  khaki  to  ragged 
overalls,  clean-looking  English  business- 
men in  white  linen  and  pith  helmets, 
dark  Venezuelans  with  wide  sombreros, 
sallow  octoroons,  and  here  and  there  an 
East  Indian  coolie  in  flowing  white,  tur- 
baned,  barelegged.  Clerks  crowd  the  shop 
entrances.  Goods  heap  the  side-walks  as 
at  a  Paris  bazaar.  A  few  blocks  farther 
the  crowd  has  thinned,  and  the  shops  are 
smaller  and  less  pretentious.  The  chauffeur 
lets  out  an  unearthly  shriek  from  the  horn 
— two  natives  jump  aside,  and  away  we  go. 

Trinidad  is  new  to  automobiles,  and 
there  is  no  speed  limit.  A  naively  un- 
60 


Trinidad 

feeling  editorial  in  the  "  Port  of  Spain 
Gazette  "  once  bemoaned  the  coolies'  habit 
of  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
because  it  is  so  unpleasant  for  automo- 
biling  tourists  to  be  obliged  to  run  over 
people.  The  streak  across  Port  of  Spain 
which  the  automobile  now  makes  is  like 
the  nightmare  of  a  speed  maniac. 

Stone  houses  with  jealous  white  walls, 
over  which  peer  great  masses  of  red 
and  purple  flowers,  airy  wooden  cottages 
embedded  coquettishly  in  verdure,  corner 
shops,  native  carts,  messenger  boys  on 
bicycles,  groups  of  negro  women  walking 
three  abreast,  graceful  coolie  girls — all 
dart  by  as  if  jerked  from  in  front  of 
your  eyes.  A  cricket  match  is  passed 
before  you  can  see  whether  the  ball  is 
hit  or  missed.  The  level  savanna  at 
the  base  of  the  hills,  with  its  race-course 
and  football  fields,  is  skirted,  and  the 
motor  shoots  through  the  palm-bordered 
entrance  to  the  Queen's  Park  Hotel. 

61 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Here  is  rest.  It  is  the  antithesis  to 
the  bustle  of  the  port  and  the  delirium 
of  the  drive.  An  old  darky  in  faded 
livery,  "  Methuselah,"  totters  out  and 
looks  at  you.  Coolly-clad  figures  in 
rocking-chairs  on  the  porch  meditatively 
absorb  their  drinks  without  even  doing 
that.  After  a  time,  a  clerk  appears  and 
you  sign  the  register.  A  while  later  a 
black  boy  comes  and  lifts  your  luggage 
from  the  motor.  After  a  little  longer 
interval  the  manager  has  reached  the 
point  of  taking  you  for  a  long,  slow, 
rambling  walk  which  leads  at  length  to 
the  room  that  is  reserved. 

It  is  a  huge  chamber  half  as  large  as 
a  tennis-court.  A  wicker  couch,  two  big 
cane  arm-chairs,  two  tables,  a  gigantic 
bed  and  a  chest  of  drawers  constitute  the 
furniture.  The  doors,  the  window-shades, 
and  the  walls  for  two  feet  down  from  the 
ceiling  are  lattice-work,  open  to  all  the 
winds  that  blow.  A  door  in  front  opens 
62 


Trinidad 

into  the  garden  facing  the  Savanna. 
In  the  courtyard  behind,  tame  white 
egrets  step  daintily  among  the  palms  and 
a  parrot  and  toucan  screech  to  each  other 
from  adjoining  cages.  On  one  side  is  a 
row  of  sheds  containing  huge  bath-tubs. 

The  hotel  regime  is  printed  on  a  notice- 
board.  Coffee  is  at  seven,  breakfast  at 
eleven,  tea  at  four,  and  dinner  at  seven. 
In  effect,  you  are  put  on  a  two-meal 
basis,  staving  off  mid-afternoon  pangs 
with  tea  and  toast.  As  breakfast  is  over 
at  twelve,  which  hour  is  already  rapidly 
nearing,  it  seems  desirable  to  indulge 
now,  calling  the  meal  lunch,  to  justify 
eating  at  this  time.  So  you  go  out  on  the 
veranda,  which  serves  as  a  dining-room. 

Black  waiters  dressed  in  white  serve 
you,  with  quarter-hour  waits  between 
courses,  and  there  are  brought  the  multi- 
tudinous dishes  of  a  meal,  which  begins 
with  hominy  and  progresses  through  the 
stock  British  stand-bys  of  bacon  and 

63 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

eggs  and  liver  and  bacon.  Indigenous 
additions  follow :  fried  plantains  and  a 
strangely  named  fish  whose  consumption, 
according  to  the  legend,  will  bring  you 
back  to  Trinidad  without  fail.  When 
fruits  are  reached  you  explore  a  new 
kingdom, — mangoes  with  their  stringy 
seed ;  little  bananas  three  inches  long, 
with  a  flavour  never  found  in  varieties 
shipped  North  ;  juicy  star-apples  ;  sour- 
saps  with  prickly  green  exterior  and 
creamy  paste  inside ;  sapadillas,  in  appear- 
ance brown  and  like  a  spherical  potato,  but 
inside  granular  with  sugary  sweetness.  It 
is  a  wonderful  collection.  Why  are  they 
not  exported  in  cold  storage?  $Quidn 
sabe  ? 

It  is  a  long  function,  this  breakfast. 
One  feels  as  if  he  had  accomplished  an 
important  act  when  he  joins  the  rest  on 
the  rocking-chairs  of  the  portico.  None 
but  the  heaviest  of  black  Havana  cigars 
seem  appropriate,  or  at  least  none  are 
64 


Trinidad 

procurable.  You  idly  watch  a  company 
of  negroes  with  a  couple  of  energetic 
Englishmen  at  cricket  practice  on  the 
Savanna.  Farther  off  some  cattle  feed, 
strange  humped  beasts,  zebu  imported  from 
India  with  the  indentured  coolies.  Horses 
are  being  exercised  for  the  forthcoming 
races  on  the  track  beyond  the  zebu. 

Magnificent  trees  are  scattered  here  and 
there, — gigantic  spreading  samans,  ban- 
yans with  their  myriad  roots,  cannon- 
ball  trees  bearing  spherical  black  pods. 
In  front  of  the  houses  that  face  the  park 
stand,  like  sentinels,  rows  of  towering 
royal  palms.  Splashes  of  vivid  colour 
show  here  and  there  amidst  the  green : 
the  poinsettia's  flaming  scarlet,  the  be- 
gonia's purple,  the  white  of  the  matapile 
flowers. 

As  the  heat  grows,  the  cricketers  cease 

their   laborious  play.     The   portico   chairs 

are  largely  deserted.     It  is  hot,  let  no  one 

doubt  this.     It  is  time  for  the  siesta  and 

F  65 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  bath  which  prepares  you  for  a  fresh 
start  in  the  late  afternoon. 

At  four  o'clock,  refreshed,  rested,  and 
clean,  the  world  reappears.  There  is  a 
stir  around  the  veranda.  Englishmen 
on  horseback  ride  up.  Ladies  in  white 
come  out  and  make  tea  for  linen-clad 
visitors.  Carriages,  at  first  a  few  but 
soon  a  stream,  pass  by. 

A  brougham  with  an  ancient  negro  on 
the  box  stops  before  the  hotel  door, 
Methuselah  potters  over  to  give  you  a 
note.  It  is  an  invitation  to  drive  from 
Mrs.  Farrell,  wife  of  the  manager  of  one 
of  the  oil  companies.  You  climb  into  the 
carriage  and  set  out  for  your  hostess's  resi- 
dence. Big  rambling  houses  embowered 
in  gardens  line  the  short  way.  A  row  of 
towering  palms  marks  the  Farrell  land. 
In  their  yard  a  tame  deer  looks  question- 
ingly  at  you.  The  whole  front  of  the 
house  is  a  big  broad  veranda,  with  tall 
white  pillars  supporting  the  roof. 
66 


Trinidad 

"  We  all  drive  in  the  cool  of  the  after- 
noon," says  Mrs.  Farrell,  who  is  awaiting 
you.  "  It  is  the  most  important  function 
in  the  day." 

We  enter  the  carriage,  drive  out  of  the 
grounds  and  swing  into  the  procession 
that  flows  past  the  gateway. 

"  Most  of  the  ladies  here  do  not  get 
dressed  until  afternoon,"  she  observes 
presently.  "  Mother  Hubbards  and  carpet 
slippers,  you  know.  Now  I  will  point  you 
out  the  lions." 

A  dark  middle-aged  man  with  a  very 
pretty  girl  beside  him  passes  and  bows 
ceremoniously.  "That  is  Mr.  Siegert  and 
his  daughter ;  his  place  is  beside  the 
Queen's  Park,"  says  Mrs.  Farrell.  "  He 
was  a  Venezuelan,  but  the  revolutions 
drove  him  out.  He  came  here  with  his 
family  and  makes  the  Angostura  bitters 
which  the  monks  used  to  brew." 

A  brougham  with  a  fine  pair  of  bays 
goes  by.  "  The  Sandersons,"  says  your 

67 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

hostess.  "  He  is  an  American.  His 
father  got  the  flour  monopoly  of  Venezuela 
and  the  family  has  still  an  interest  in  it. 
He  married  a  Venezuelan  and  lives  here 
most  of  the  time.  They  have  that  big 
white  house  by  the  College." 

A  solitary  bearded  man  driving  a  dog- 
cart passes.  "  That  is  Graham,  the  richest 
man  in  Trinidad.  They  say  he  is  the 
shrewdest  too.  He  has  a  grant  of  Crown 
land  planted  with  coco-nuts  and  cocoa. 
He  has  plantations  all  over  the  island." 

On  the  piazza  of  a  big  house  with  palms 
in  front  she  points  out  Benoit  Tomasi. 
"  He  is  a  Corsican,  who  came  to  Venezuela 
without  a  penny.  He  traded  and  built 
up  a  big  business  along  the  Orinoco. 
His  nephew  runs  it  now  and  he  lives  here. 
He  owns  the  Callao  Mine,  but  there  is  a 
lawsuit  on  and  he  can  get  nothing  from  it. 

"  You  have  a  letter  for  Mr.  Robertson, 
have  you    not  ?    That  is    his   automobile 
just  turning  in." 
68 


Trinidad 

You  mention  that  you  have  received  an 
invitation  to  dine  with  him  to-night. 

"  He  is  very  interesting.  He  is  as 
Scotch  as  if  he  had  only  been  out  of 
the  old  country  a  fortnight,  but  his  family 
has  been  here  for  two  generations.  His 
father  came  from  Scotland  fifty  years 
ago  and  started  a  mercantile  house 
in  Demerara.  The  son  conducts  the 
Trinidad  branch  of  the  firm ;  but  he 
keeps  up  his  family  connexion  with 
Scotland  and  goes  back  every  year. 
His  wife  is  there  now." 

A  bearded  man  of  distinguished  ap- 
pearance salutes  us  from  the  promenade. 

"  Baron  Spejo,  a  Spaniard,"  says  Mrs. 
Farrell ;  "and  yonder,"  nodding  forward 
to  a  typically  British  figure  on  horseback, 
"  is  Major  Bridges,  of  the  Constabulary. 
He  has  seen  service  in  Egypt  and  South 
Africa — was  sent  here  after  the  Boer  War. 
There  beyond  are  Sefior  and  Sefiora 
Gracia.  They  are  nice  people,  but  it 

69 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

is  whispered  that  they  are  touched — negro 
blood,  you  know.  It  may  not  be  so.  It 
is  fashionable  for  gossip  here  to  blacken 
skins  as  well  as  reputations." 

We  leave  the  Savanna  drive  and  its 
promenaders  and  turn  to  the  left  into  the 
Maraval  road,  past  a  straggling  negro 
settlement  and  into  a  wooded  valley  under 
the  hills.  The  road  runs  between  huge 
clumps  of  bamboos,  in  many  places 
shading  the  way  like  a  tunnel.  Humming- 
birds flit  here  and  there,  the  sacred  "  lere  " 
of  the  now  extinct  Carib  Indians  who 
welcomed  the  old  Conquistadores. 

A  delightful  coolness  fills  the  air, 
scented  with  the  odour  of  a  multitude 
of  flowers.  The  contrast  to  the  blaze 
of  midday  is  luxuriously  appreciated. 

We  turn  as  dusk  comes  on.  Slowly 
the  sedate  horses  take  us  back  to 
town.  The  peace  of  nature  casts  its 
spell  over  the  dying  day.  As  darkness 
gathers  quickly,  bats  begin  to  dart  and 
70 


Trinidad 

circle  alongside.  The  chirp  of  insects, 
the  cry  of  night-birds,  the  mournful 
"  O-poor-me-one,"  which  the  negroes  say 
is  the  call  of  the  sloth,  sound  from  the 
thickets.  Light  after  light  springs  out  from 
cottages  along  the  road  and  from  the 
town  ahead.  It  is  dark  when  the  horses 
hoofs  rattle  on  the  gravel  of  the  Farrell 
driveway. 

It  takes  some  speedy  dressing  to  make 
Mr.  Robertson's  dinner  on  schedule  time. 
Even  here  in  the  tropics  that  stiff- 
bosomed  rampart  of  British  respectability, 
the  dress-suit,  is  requisite.  A  dinner 
coat  is  permissible,  but  that  is  the  ultimate 
concession.  Mr.  Robertson  sends  his 
machine  to  take  you  to  his  house,  which 
is  one  of  those  facing  the  Savanna. 

As  you  enter  the  host  is  talking  with 
another  guest,  Mr.  George  Stevenson, 
Mining  Engineer,  Member  of  the  British 
Institute,  fresh  from  the  Galician  oil- 
fields, called  here  to  examine  some 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Trinidad  oil  prospect.  Soon  after  appear 
George  Frothingharn,  a  cocoa-planter 
with  large  estates  in  the  middle  of  the 
island,  a  nephew  of  the  host,  fresh  from 
the  old  country  and  being  broken  in  at 
Robertson's  stores,  and  Major  Albert 
Bridges,  of  the  Constabulary. 

We  are  introduced  to  the  renowned 
"green  swizzle'' — a  liquid  whose  translu- 
cent tinge  fills  the  bottom  of  the  glass,  the 
green  shading  gradually  into  the  dark  red 
of  bitters  near  the  surface.  Gin,  lime,  and 
soda  have  entered  into  its  making,  and 
the  star-shaped  swizzle-stick  has  been 
twirled  within  it.  Its  taste  is  unique ;  its 
action  suamter  in  modo,  fortiter  in  re. 

Green  swizzles  have  a  marked  effect 
on  people's  conversational  ability.  Steven- 
son recounts  stories  of  his  start  in  the 
Indian  Civil  Service  under  Sir  William 
Willcox,  the  famous  engineer,  whose 
genius  threw  the  Assuan  Dam  across 
the  full  current  of  the  Nile  and  redeemed 
72 


Trinidad 

a  kingdom  of  waste  land  for  Egyptian 
cultivation.  "  The  most  religious  man  I 
ever  knew,"  adds  the  engineer;  "he  did 
not  even  swear  when  the  berm  of  one 
of  our  irrigation  canals  gave  way." 

"  He  never  had  to  unravel  a  lawsuit 
between  two  time-expired  East  Indians," 
says  Major  Bridges. 

"  He  never  tried  to  make  cocoa-plant- 
ing pay  wdth  negro  labour,"  grumbles 
Frothingham.  "  Those  negroes  are  not 
worth  a  penny.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
coolies  there  would  not  be  a  white  planter 
in  Trinidad.  It  is  bad  enough  as  it  is." 

"Cocoa-men  are  always  grumbling," 
says  the  host.  "  How  would  you  like 
to  have  had  sugar  and  to  have  seen  your 
values  wiped  out  by  foreign  beet-root 
subsidies?  Why,  you  cocoa  people  and 
the  coco-nut  growers  are  all  capitalists  1 " 

Frothingham  does  not  have  much  to 
say,  for  in  fact  he  has  not  suffered  in 
the  sale  of  cocoa.  "We  have  done  well 

73 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

in  cocoa  for  the  Paris  market,  but  that 
is  only  because  chocolate  is  displacing 
coffee  for  the  French  petit  ddjeuner" 
he  admits  grudgingly. 

The  nephew  breaks  in:  "You  planters 
should  encourage  new  uses  for  your 
product.  Advertise  and  make  anointing 
the  body  fashionable,  as  it  used  to  be  in 
Rome.  That  will  help  sell  your  coco-nut 
oil." 

"  Can't  you  arrange  that  they  use  crude 
petroleum  as  well  ?  Our  industry  needs 
encouraging  too,  "  observes  the  engineer. 

"We  need  all  the  oil  you  can  pump 
as  fuel  for  our  battleships,"  declares 
Major  Bridges.  "  Trinidad  is  the  one  oil- 
producing  district  under  the  British  flag. 
These  fields  are  shifting  the  whole 
balance  of  political  power.  Since  these 
and  others  in  Venezuela  were  discovered 
the  German  Government  has  been  making 
soundings  all  around  Margarita  Island, 
which  they  say  the  Kaiser  is  trying  to  get 
74 


Trinidad 

as  a  naval  station.  It  is  generally  believed 
here  that  the  British  Admiralty  is  planning 
to  beat  them  out  by  establishing  a  huge 
naval  base  at  Port  of  Spain.  Fortifying  the 
islands  at  the  Dragon's  Mouth  and  Cedros 
Point  overlooking  the  Serpent's  Mouth 
will  enable  us  to  command  both  entrances 
to  the  Gulf  of  Paria.  Then  we  will  control 
the  trade  route  from  Europe  to  Panama, 
and  to  the  east  coast  of  South  America." 

"They  say  the  Standard  Oil  Company 
is  trying  to  get  control  of  the  field  already," 
comments  Frothingham. 

"Well,  eil  is  here  all  right,"  asserts 
the  host.  "The  Pitch  Lake  people  have 
shipped  one  tank-steamer  full  and  are 
building  sixteen  big  thirty-five-thousand- 
barrel  tanks.  And  they  don't  usually 
spend  any  money  foolishly — except  what 
they  give  for  revolutions  in  Venezuela." 

"We  aren't  like  Venezuela,"  says 
the  Major  virtuously. 

"There  is  one  good  thing  about 

75 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Venezuela,"  says  Mr.  Robertson,  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  All  the  officials 
aren't  sent  from  the  old  country.  A 
native  over  there  gets  a  chance  some- 
times for  something  higher  than  school 
commissioner." 

The  Major  takes  his  host's  remark  very 
seriously.  "  But  you  can't  have  self- 
government  here,  with  your  population. 
You  have  two  hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  people  in  Trinidad.  Half  of 
them  are  negroes,  a  third  are  coolies, 
and  the  whites  are  of  every  nation  and 
every  tribe  on  this  terrestrial  ball." 

"You  remember  the  story  of  how 
Toussaint  1'Ouverture  sprinkled  salt 
over  a  handful  of  black  dirt  and  said 
'Voila  les  blancs,'  then  shook  the  hand- 
ful together,  opened  his  hand,  and  asked 
'  Ou  sont  les  blancs  ? '  Trinidad  would 
be  like  Haiti  in  ten  years  if  we  gave 
you  Home  Rule." 

"Well,"  says  Mr.  Robertson,  turning  to 
76 


Trinidad 

you  and  speaking  in  his  broadest  Scotch, 
"  we'll  forgie  them  in  Lunnon  if  they'll 
send  no  more  like  yon  wastrel." 

Everybody  laughs  at  the  Major,  and 
then  we  pour  him  a  drink  of  Scotch  to 
cheer  him  up. 

The  talk  drifts  to  the  indentured  coolies. 
The  engineer  has  studied  their  social 
system  while  in  India.  "All  here  are  of 
the  lower  castes — sudras,"  he  says,  "and 
each  goes  down  one  degree  by  leaving 
India.  It  will  take  many  payments  to  the 
priests  when  they  return  to  procure 
redemption." 

"  Many  of  them  don't  return  at  all," 
comments  Robertson.  "  I  have  a  lawsuit 
with  a  time-expired  coolie  freeholder  about 
a  road.  They  are  the  worst  people  for 
going  to  law  you  ever  saw." 

"  I  should  think  they  were,"  adds 
Frothingham,  "except  when  their  wives 
are  too  attractive  to  their  friends.  Then 
they  slice  the  woman  up  with  a  machete 

77 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

and  send  the  man  a  piece  of  her  as  a 
gift.  But  everything  else  they  go  to  law 
about.  There  was  a  case  up  before  the 
San  Fernando  Police  Court  last  week. 
A  free  labourer  named  Bo  Jawan, 
belonging  to  our  Harmony  Hall  estate, 
came  to  the  Government  Savings  Bank 
with  his  wife  Jugdeah,  making  the  air 
blue  with  Hindu  expletives.  The 
woman  had  deposited  some  money  in 
her  own  name  and  the  husband  wanted 
to  draw  it.  *  If  you  don't  give  me  the 
money  I  will  bring  Mahabit  Maharaj  (the 
Governor)  and  the  police,'  he  shouted. 
Jugdeah  tried  to  run  away,  but  the 
coolie  made  a  tackle  and  got  her  by  the 
leg.  De  la  Rosa,  the  cashier,  is  a  hot- 
tempered  chap  and  he  threw  the  man 
downstairs.  The  coolie  summoned  him 
for  assault,  and  the  wife  proceeded  to 
perjure  herself  by  saying  that  she  and 
her  husband  had  tiptoed  in,  hand-in- 
hand,  and  had  asked  for  her  money 
78 


Trinidad 

together  in  a  dulcet  voice.  De  la  Rosa 
got  off,  but  it  cost  him  a  pound  fine. 
The  judge  is  a  negro,  and  he  gives  it 
to  the  whites  a  little  extra  when  a  case 
comes  up  to  him." 

We  end  dinner  with  coffee  and 
cashew  nuts,  and  go  out  to  watch  the 
engineer  beat  the  cocoa-planter  at 
billiards  on  a  huge  English  table  in 
the  palm  room.  At  midnight  the  party 
breaks  up,  and  as  the  automobile  whirls 
back  to  the  hotel,  among  the  wonder- 
fully bright  constellations  can  be  seen 
the  Southern  Cross,  upright  high  above 
the  horizon. 

A  fortnight's  stay  in  Port  of  Spain  is 
well  worth  the  time.  You  are  put  up  at 
the  Union  Club  in  Marine  Square,  where 
the  business  men  gather  for  breakfast, 
and  at  the  Queen's  Park  Club,  which 
declares  itself  to  be  "  sporting  and 
social."  You  explore  the  recesses  of  the 
negro  quarter.  You  visit  the  nurseries 

79 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

where  seeds  and  shoots  from  all  over 
the  world  are  experimented  with,  to  test 
their  adaptability  to  Trinidad,  and  where 
indigenous  coffee  plants,  balata  gum, 
cocoa,  bananas,  oranges,  everything  that 
may  be  useful  to  the  Colony,  is  being 
grafted  and  developed.  You  can  order 
khaki  or  white  linen  suits  made  at  an 
English  tailor's  for  some  such  ridiculous 
price  as  five  dollars,  and  buy  American 
watches  and  sewing-machines  at  about  a 
quarter  less  than  in  the  States. 

Your  letters  open  the  doors  to  a  quaint 
world  of  English  officials  sent  out  from 
the  old  country  to  this  London-governed 
Crown  Colony.  You  meet  Venezuelan 
exiles,  some  long-established,  like  the 
Siegerts,  some  only  recently  fled  from 
across  the  Gulf,  with  their  property 
confiscated  and  bitterness  in  their  hearts. 
You  find  American  managers  of  the 
asphalt  and  petroleum  companies ;  re- 
tired Corsican  traders  grown  rich  on 
80 


>«••*••«* 


QUEEN'S   PARK 


INDIGENOUS   CRICKET 


Trinidad 

the  balata  export;  English  and  Scotch 
merchants  and  old  French  families  dating 
from  the  time  of  the  negro  insurrection 
in  Haiti.  A  veritable  kaleidoscope  of 
tints  and  shades  are  the  assemblages  at 
the  Government  Palace,  where  the  wives 
of  negro  magistrates  rub  elbows  with 
Colonial  planters  and  English  officials. 

To  see  the  rest  of  the  island,  a  motor 
trip  is  the  best  method.  Trinidad  is 
only  50  miles  square,  and  is  crossed  by 
splendid  roads.  The  manager  of  one  of 
the  oil  companies,  Mr.  David  Jefferson,  an 
American  from  Alabama,  puts  his  car  at 
our  disposal.  A  day  is  selected,  and  as 
an  early  start  is  desirable,  so  as  to  ride 
as  much  as  possible  in  the  cool  of  the 
day,  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  is  set 
for  the  time  of  departure.  The  machine 
appears  promptly  with  a  smart-looking 
negro  chauffeur  at  the  wheel.  Fixed  on 
the  front  of  the  radiator  is  a  bedraggled 
Teddy  Bear. 

G  81 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"A  queer  conceit,"  you  remark. 

uThat  isn't  a  fancy,"  is  the  answer; 
"wait  until  we  hit  the  native  settlement." 
A  few  moments  later  we  are  in  the 
region  of  low  mud  huts  and  streets  so 
crowded  that  the  horn  must  be  blown 
continuously.  From  every  side  run  up 
piccaninnies,  some  clad  in  a  shirt,  some 
in  a  wisp  of  rag,  some  in  a  smile. 
With  one  accord  they  shriek  for  joy, 
dance  up  and  down,  point  to  each  other, 
and  a  good  half  of  their  parents  do  the 
same.  "  Monkee !  monkee !  "  they  cry. 

"You  see!"  says  Mr.  Jefferson;  "they 
don't  pay  any  attention  to  the  automobile, 
they  are  so  interested  in  the  Teddy 
Bear.  I  can  run  over  a  dozen  assorted 
chickens,  dogs,  pigs,  and  ducks,  and 
when  I  come  back,  instead  of  heaving 
rocks  at  me,  they  shout  at  the  bear." 

We  shoot  on  with  the  echo  ringing  in 
our  ears,  "  Monkee  !  monkee  1 " 

An  East  Indian  settlement  appears 
82 


Trinidad 

now,  and  the  coolie  children  do  exactly 
as  the  negro  piccaninnies  did,  shouting 
while  their  elders  stare  fixedly  at  the 
Teddy. 

We  pass  a  tall  figure  of  a  man  with 
ample  robes  and  a  caste  mark  on  his 
forehead  who  does  not  deign  to  notice 
us — a  Hindu  priest.  Coolie  women, 
their  faces  half  covered  with  silken 
shawls  and  their  arms  laden  with  silver 
bangles,  hammered  out  from  the  English 
shillings  which  represent  the  savings 
of  the  family,  glide  gracefully  by. 
What  a  contrast  are  their  lithe  slender 
figures,  in  gracefully  draped  robes,  to 
those  of  the  negro  women,  in  cheap 
ready-made  skirts  and  bodices,  who, 
shapelessly  bundled  together,  waddle 
clumsily  along!  Some  of  the  coolie 
girls  are  really  beautiful,  though  they 
invariably  spoil  the  effect  by  a  nose-ring. 

A    cart    drawn     by    a    span    of    zebu 
with    half    a    dozen    bare-legged    coolies 

83 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

sitting  on  hard  planks  passes.  Farther 
along,  beside  a  small  stream  rest  a  yoke 
of  water  buffalo.  Little  nondescript  dogs, 
looking  like  degenerate  fox-terriers,  run 
out  and  snap  at  the  whirring  wheels. 
Four  coolies  appear  walking  abreast 
and  carrying  a  big  magenta  flag.  They 
scatter  to  left  and  right  as  we  pass.  Their 
usually  snowy  white  shirts  are  stained 
and  streaked  with  purple,  as  if  a  tub  of 
dye  had  fallen  on  them. 

"They  throw  those  colours  on  each 
other  at  the  feasts,"  explains  Mr.  Jefferson 
above  the  whir  of  the  wheels. 

The  suburbs  of  Port  of  Spain  extend 
for  six  miles.  Almost  all  the'  way  along 
the  road  there  are  little  adobe  houses, 
sometimes  those  of  negroes,  sometimes 
those  of  coolies,  for  though  these  two 
races  disdain  each  other  they  live  side 
by  side. 

Each  has  a  comfortable  feeling  of 
superiority,  the  negro  because  he  is  free 
84 


Trinidad 

to  loaf  while  the  coolie  is  indentured  for 
five  years,  the  coolie  because  of  his 
traditions  of  ancient  civilization  and  the 
pride  of  caste,  to  which  every  Indian 
down  to  the  lowest  clings,  even  here  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world. 

A  sugar-cane  plantation  is  reached, 
extending  for  miles  in  every  direction. 
A  locomotive  on  a  narrow-gauge  track 
puffs  near  by,  hidden  amid  the  high 
cane.  Farther  on  coolies  with  machetes 
in  hand  are  cutting  stalks,  which  others 
load  into  cars,  piling  them  to  a  great 
height.  Miles  of  cane-brake  flank  the 
beautifully  smooth  and  well-kept  roads. 

The  ground  becomes  more  hilly. 
Cocoa  plantations  begin,  straight  files  of 
small  cocoa-trees  shaded  by  immortelles, 
with  dark  alleys  between  the  rows.  The 
ripening  pods,  green,  yellow,  red,  and 
purple,  sprout  in  queer  fashion  directly 
from  the  trunk  or  from  thick  branches. 

After  a  two-hour  run  San  Fernando 

35 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

is  reached,  with  its  statue  of  the  crucified 
Christ  overlooking  the  market-place  of  the 
coolies.  A  half-dozen  miles  beyond  this 
is  the  entrance  to  the  Government's 
Forest  Reserve.  The  trail  into  the  forest 
is  impassable,  unfortunately,  for  the 
automobile.  We  start  in  on  foot  through 
a  small  cocoa  plantation  owned  by  a 
coolie  who  has  served  his  time  and  pur- 
chased Crown  land. 

Beyond  it  the  forest  begins.  Nothing 
can  describe  the  feeling  of  one's  own 
insignificance  which  the  monster  trunks 
that  flank  the  narrow  trail  inspire. 
One  is  an  ant  beneath  these  giants.  The 
weirdly  colossal  forests  which  Gustave 
Dor£  drew  to  illustrate  Chateaubriand's 
"Atala,"  with  pygmy  figures  wandering 
beneath  the  overwhelming  majesty  of  the 
virgin  woods,  are  here  a  reality.  Mora 
trees,  80  feet  to  120  feet  high,  tower  up 
on  either  hand.  Cedars  rise  60  feet  to 
80  feet  tall.  Balatd  rubber  trees  shoot 
86 


Trinidad 

up  ioo  feet,  with  the  scars  of  the  rubber 
tappings  on  them.  Here  and  there  are 
specimens  whose  boles  grow  in  the  shape 
of  narrow  buttresses  and  cover  at  the 
bottom  an  area  40  feet  square.  From 
the  tall  hardwoods  hang  tenuous  vines, 
dropping  straight  as  a  plummet.  We 
toil  through  the  heavy  clay,  around  trunks 
and  over  logs,  drenched  with  perspiration, 
oppressed  by  the  dank  heat. 

"  Here  are  hardwoods  that  nobody  ever 
heard  of  up  North,  which  ought  to  be 
marketed,"  Jefferson  remarks. 

"  Disgracefully  commercial,"  you  tell 
him,  and  climb  back  into  the  automobile. 

Frequent  villages  of  coolies  and  negroes 
lie  along  the  way,  and  long  stretches  of 
cocoa  plantation.  Now  and  then  we  pass 
a  neat  stucco  constabulary  station.  Amid 
the  multitudes  of  natives  an  occasional 
white  overseer  is  seen  driving  by  in  his 
buggy-  As  we  get  towards  the  Atlantic 
coast  the  road  narrows  and  the  jungle 

87 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

takes  the  place  of  cultivated  lands. 
Dense  thickets  30  feet  high,  with  occa- 
sional big  trees  lifting  their  heads  above 
the  other  vegetation,  close  in  on  either 
hand.  The  ground  is  more  and  more 
hilly.  At  length,  after  a  stretch  of  coco- 
nut palms,  there  appear  the  roofs  of  a 
straggly  settlement  of  poor-looking  houses, 
the  village  of  Mayaro,  in  the  south-east 
corner  of  the  island. 

Twelve  miles  of  drive  along  the  beach 
will  take  us  to  the  Guayaguayare  oil- 
fields, where  the  production  of  petroleum 
has  been  recently  started.  We  must  leave 
the  car,  which  cannot  negotiate  the  heavy 
sands,  but  a  good  mule  and  buggy  are 
loaned  us  for  the  trip.  While  waiting 
for  low  tide,  we  lunch  upon  tinned  goods 
and  biscuit  bought  from  a  Chinaman  who 
keeps  a  general  store.  All  around  coco- 
nut trees  are  growing,  the  nuts  hanging 
a  few  feet  overhead.  We  ask  for  one  to 
try,  but  not  a  man  will  budge.  "  They 
88 


Trinidad 

belong  to  George  Grant,"  is  the  explana- 
tion. It  is  a  commentary  on  the  rigidity 
and  the  enforcement  of  the  law  here. 

At  length,  when  close  to  ebb-tide,  we 
start  along  a  beach.  Mile  after  mile  of 
unfenced  coco-nut  plantations,  the  palms 
rooted  in  the  barren  sand,  border  the 
sea-shore.  A  few  houses  of  negroes  and 
one  occupied  by  a  white  superintendent 
look  out  towards  the  Atlantic.  Beautiful 
pink  and  purple  Portuguese  men-of-war 
lie  on  the  beach.  The  dry  ones  burst 
with  a  loud  pop  when  a  wheel  crushes 
over  them.  A  negro  boy  walks  along  in 
the  shoal  water,  throwing  a  net  from  time 
to  time  and  bringing  back  the  small 
bulge-eyed  fishes  which  swim  along  the 
margin  of  the  land  to  avoid  the  bigger 
fish  in  the  deeper  water.  A  solitary 
pelican  skims  the  sea,  making  occasional 
dives  into  the  breakers. 

Here  along  the  shore,  with  the  trade 
wind  blowing  in,  it  is  cool  even  in  mid- 
89 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

afternoon.  But  where  the  road  cuts 
through  the  forest  the  heat  is  oppressive. 
We  ford  two  shallow  river-mouths  with 
tangles  of  mangrove  in  the  area  where 
fresh  water  meets  salt.  The  coco-nut 
groves  give  place  to  forested  hills  and  the 
distorted  and  broken  strata  of  clay  and 
sand  show  up  on  the  cliffs  along  the  sea. 

At  length  appears  a  row  of  houses  set 
up  on  stilts  15  feet  in  the  air,  the  quarters 
of  the  white  workmen  of  the  oil  company. 
The  local  manager  comes  down  to  meet 
us,  and  we  climb  the  stairs  and  enter  the 
mosquito  -  proof  portico,  where  pipes, 
magazines,  and  great  easy-chairs  show 
that  when  off  duty  certain  elemental 
comforts  are  not  lacking. 

Dinner  is  due  as  we  arrive,  and  after 
a  wash  we  sit  down  to  the  manager's 
mess.  After  dinner  some  bottled  speci- 
mens of  the  deadly  coral  snake  found  on 
the  works  are  proudly  exhibited.  We 
dip  into  some  ancient  " Strand  Magazines" 
90 


'       :.  • 


Trinidad 

on  the  veranda  and  smoke  our  pipes  and 
talk  looking  out  upon  the  quiet  ocean. 

In  the  morning  we  take  a  handcar 
propelled  by  four  negroes  and  go  up  the 
narrow-gauge  track  to  the  wells.  Row 
after  row  of  spare  bits  and  casing-ele- 
vators lie  neatly  ranged  in  the  store-room. 
Farther  on  are  the  derricks  with  their 
boilers  100  feet  distant,  so  that  in  case 
of  a  gusher  the  oil  will  not  take  fire.  A 
6o-foot  stream  of  oil  shot  up  from  one 
of  the  wells  near  by  recently,  and  most 
of  the  oil  was  lost  at  sea  before  the 
flow  could  be  stopped. 

Within  the  derrick-shed  an  engine 
turns  a  g-foot  bull-wheel,  driving  up  and 
down  a  walking  beam  like  that  on  a 
Mississippi  steamer.  The  drill-hole,  lined 
with  pipe  8  inches  in  diameter,  goes  down 
i, 800  feet  through  the  layers  (clay  and 
sandstone)  of  the  oil  -  bearing  anticline. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  well,  attached  to  the 
walking  beam  by  a  2-inch  hemp  cable 

91 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

works  the  drilling  bit,  shaped  like  a  fish's 
tail.  Above  it  is  the  jar  or  link  which 
brings  the  bit  up  with  a  jerk  when  the 
beam  is  being  raised.  This  "  string  of 
tools "  churns  down  through  rock  and 
clay  into  the  oil  sands.  Some  hundreds 
of  feet  away  a  well  fully  dug  is  being 
pumped  for  oil.  Still  farther  off  another 
is  having  the  water  and  the  sand,  pul- 
verized by  the  bit,  baled  out  so  that 
drilling  can  recommence. 

We  take  a  trip  on  foot  to  a  place  close 
at  hand  where  natural  gas  rises  from  the 
ground  and  can  be  lit  by  a  match. 
Farther  on  is  a  little  brook  running  a 
driblet  of  black  oil  instead  of  water  from 
some  spring  in  the  hill-side.  In  places 
black  ledges  of  pitch,  soft  in  the  hot 
sun,  give  under  the  feet.  A  small  mud 
volcano  is  near  by. 

The  forest  with  its  great  trees,  screeching 
parakeets  and  buzzing  insects,  is  all  about. 

The  return  trip  along  the  sands  brings 
92 


Trinidad 

us  back  to  Mayaro  at  about  noon,  after 
long  stretches  of  wading,  for  the  tide 
nearly  catches  us  under  the  cliffs.  A 
long  run  in  the  automobile  brings  us 
to  the  celebrated  Asphalt  Lake.  The 
straggling  village  at  its  edge  is  an  extra- 
ordinary spectacle.  Not  a  house  but  is 
twisted  out  of  plumb.  The  land  is  the 
source  of  never-ending  litigation,  because 
the  slowly  shifting  currents  of  the  pitch 
bottom  in  a  few  years  move  yards  and 
gardens  on  to  other  men's  property,  dis- 
tort boundaries  into  every  possible  shape, 
carry  landmarks  a  hundred  yards  away. 
Some  natives  are  doing  a  little  desultory 
digging  here  before  the  territory  of  the 
Asphalt  Company  begins.  A  green  bam- 
boo across  the  road  marks  its  boundary. 
There  shiftlessness  ends  and  system 
begins.  Well-built  mosquito-proof  bar- 
racks for  the  workmen,  with  shower-baths 
and  clothes-racks,  grace  the  bare  hill. 
A  long  pier  extends  far  out  to  sea  and 

93 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  houses  of  the  officers  are  built  over 
piles  alongside,  swept  by  every  breeze. 
On  a  cable-way  to  the  ship  waiting  off 
the  pier-end  goes  a  slow  line  of  big  steel 
buckets,  and  negroes  stand  sending  the 
asphalt  contents  down  a  chute  into  the  hold. 

The  manager  of  the  lake,  Mr.  Procter, 
clad  in  khaki  and  riding  gaiters,  welcomes 
us  with  strange  drinks  and  Cuban  cigars 
on  his  swaying  house  above  the  waters 
of  the  Gulf  of  Paria.  We  lunch  with  him 
and  his  engineers.  After  a  chat  we  follow 
back  the  half-mile-long  cable- way  to  the  lake. 

The  abomination  of  desolation  is  this 
lake.  In  spots  a  palm  killed  by  the 
asphalt  droops  disconsolately.  A  few 
tufts  of  grass  have  secured  a  footing  in 
places.  But  for  the  rest  it  is  a  solid  mass 
of  black,  dull,  evil-smelling  pitch,  with 
pools  of  water  here  and  there  in  which 
swim  little  parboiled  fishes.  Against  any 
of  the  hot  spots  in  the  world,  bar  none, 
this  can  be  backed.  The  tropic  sun  beats 

94 


Trinidad 

down  ;  the  black  asphalt  reflects  it  back 
like  the  entrance  of  a  furnace.  One's  feet 
are  unbearably  hot  through  the  heavy 
leather  and  one  sinks  if  he  stands  still 
for  a  moment.  A  hundred  and  fifty 
degrees  have  been  recorded  on  the  lake. 

A  wicked-looking  black  snake  six  feet 
long  glides  into  the  bushes  near  the 
margin  of  the  lake.  It  has  been  sunning 
itself  on  the  asphalt.  No  wonder  the 
serpents  are  supposed  to  be  creatures  of  the 
devil.  As  for  ourself,  fifteen  minutes' 
stay  takes  away  every  bit  of  vitality  we  can 
summon.  Not  enough  interest  is  left  in 
life  to  inquire  what  the  negroes  hewing 
with  mattocks  at  the  asphalt  receive  in 
wages.  They  earn  the  pay,  whatever  it  is. 
There  is  no  mechanical  way  yet  discovered 
by  which  the  stuff  can  be  dug.  Hour  after 
hour  these  negroes  hack  out,  with  a  few 
blows  of  the  mattock,  the  brittle  pitch, 
which  flakes  away  in  pieces  a  foot  square. 
They  lift  the  burden  to  their  heads  and 

95 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

dump  it  into  the  steel  buckets,  which  start 
their  slow  way  to  the  ship.  The  holes  fill 
up  in  a  few  days  with  new  pitch. 

"  The  lake  is  ninety  to  one  hundred 
acres  in  extent  now,"  says  Mr.  Procter, 
"  but  it  is  gradually  shrinking  with  the 
removal  of  such  large  quantities.  A  good 
percentage  of  the  asphalt  pavement  in  the 
world  comes  from  this  one  lake  and  its  geo- 
logical complement  in  Venezuela.  We 
leased  it  under  a  forty-seven  year  contract 
with  the  Trinidad  Government,  to  which 
nearly  $250,000  a  year  has  been  paid  in 
royalties.  Such  mining  is  the  nearest 
thing  there  is  to  digging  money  out  of 
the  ground.'* 

"  Yes,  but  your  Asphalt  Trust  is  wel- 
come to  it,"  says  Mr.  Jefferson.  "  If  I  had 
a  thousand  a  day  to  dig  pitch  I  would  not 
take  it." 

We  drink  all  the  iced  tea  in  the  Thermos 
bottle,  when  we  get  back  to  the  machine, 
and  turn  it  loose  for  Port  of  Spain. 
96 


Ill 

THE   SERPENT'S   MOUTH 


proposed  trip  across  the  Gulf,  up 
the  Orinoco  and  into  the  interior  of 
Venezuela  along  the  path  of  the  Seekers 
for  El  Dorado  evokes  a  most  alarming 
chaos  of  varying  advice. 

Major  Bridges,  of  the  Constabulary,  who 
has  never  been  out  of  Trinidad  and  has  a 
truly  Saxon  prejudice  against  everything 
Latin  and  lawless,  roundly  declares  that 
Venezuela  is  a  "  no  man's  land'*  where 
murder  is  commoner  than  soap  and  water. 
"  I  have  never  been  in  the  vile  country,  but 
I  heard  that  for  shooting  a  man  over  there 
the  judge  fines  the  guilty  party  only  forty 
dollars." 

Baron  Caratoni,  who  has  a  rubber  con- 
H  97 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

cession  in  Venezuela  which  he  wants  to 
sell,  protests  volubly.  "No,  no,  they  don't 
shoot  strangers — they  only  shoot  each 
other.  It  is  perfectly  safe  for  a  stranger." 

Jefferson,  of  the  oil  fields,  tells  that  the 
Sunday  previous  seven  men  employed  at 
the  Pitch  Lake  had  gone  over  to  Venezuela 
in  a  sail-boat.  They  had  been  all  thrown 
into  prison  as  revolutionaries  and  had  not 
yet  been  released.  "  They  will  keep  you  in 
jail  for  months  and  you  will  get  the  yellow 
fever,"  he  warns. 

Carrera,  exiled  in  the  Castro  regime, 
now  the  possessor  of  a  timber  concession 
upon  the  Caroni  granted  by  the  new 
Government,  relates  how  in  the  old  days 
he  was  incarcerated  for  carrying  an  entirely 
innocent  letter  which  a  friend  had  given 
him  to  post.  He  was  arrested  on  the 
pretence  that  carrying  letters  was  a 
Government  function  and  letters  were 
"contraband." 

"They  used  to  do  that  in  the  old  times, 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

but  not  now  under  President  Gomez.  No 
one  has  any  trouble  now,"  the  exile  avers. 

"  Beastly  country,  just  the  same,"  insists 
Robertson,  the  merchant.  "  They  have 
an  extra  customs  tax 'of  30  per  cent,  on 
all  goods  which  come  from  Trinidad. 
Castro  put  it  on  and  Gomez  does  not  take 
it  off." 

"  You  can  never  get  your  guns  in,  any- 
way," cautions  the  cocoa-grower.  "The 
Minister  of  the  Interior  is  the  only  man 
who  has  the  right  to  issue  permits  for 
firearms,  and  he  always  refuses  to  do  so. 
They  are  so  afraid  of  revolutions." 

Evidently  Venezuela  is  an  interesting 
country.  Also,  all  this  advice  is  worth 
considering.  You  sit  back  and  ponder  as 
the  critics  one  and  all  leave  the  hotel. 
Mr.  Jefferson  turns  as  he  goes:  "Over 
there  is  a  man  who  can  tell  you  enough 
about  the  Orinoco.  He  is  just  back  from 
Ciudad  Bolivar." 

Talking  with  a  couple  of  dusky-hued 

99 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Spanish  belles  on  the  portico  of  the 
Queen's  Park  Hotel  sits  a  linen-clad  figure 
topped  by  a  sweeping  white  sombrero. 

"  Introduce  me,"  you  suggest.  For 
some  reason  Jefferson  hesitates.  He  is 
silent  a  long,  dubious  minute.  Then  he 
laughs  lightly  and  shrugs  his  shoulders. 
"  If  you  insist,"  he  says,  and  walks  across. 

"  Mr.  Fitzgerald!"  The  latter  turns 
around  carelessly. 

"Hullo,  Jeff!  How's  the  boy?"  he  snaps 
with  a  regular  Yankee  twang.  The  intro- 
duction follows.  A  few  general  remarks 
are  interchanged,  then  we  settle  to  our 
theme.  His  roving  grey  eyes  meet  yours. 

1  '  Venezuela!  sure  I  can  tell  you  about 
Venezuela ! "  He  signals  a  waiter  with 
his  rattan  cane  and  gives  a  repeat  order. 

After  the  chaos  of  contrary  advice  from 
insular  Englishmen  and  Venezuelan  pro- 
moters anxious  to  sell  rubber  plantations, 
it  is  like  the  turning  on  of  a  searchlight 
to  meet  this  type  of  fellow-countryman. 
100 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

You  fire  in  some  specific  and  direct 
questions. 

"  Do  people  shoot  each  other  habitually 
over  there  ?  " 

"Only  when  they  get  excited." 

This  seems  perfectly  satisfactory. 

"  How  about  the  men  that  went  across 
from  New  Brighton  and  got  caught  by 
the  gunboat  ?  " 

"  Why,  sure,  they  got  pinched.  They 
didn't  take  out  any  papers  or  pass  the 
custom-house.  You'll  be  jugged  any- 
where if  you  enter  that  way.  Get  the 
permit  and  go  in  through  the  custom- 
house— then  it  is  like  sliding  off  a  log." 

"Well,  how  about  confiscating  your 
rifles,  and  30  per  cent,  taxes  and  such 
things?" 

"Why,  if  you  are  on  the  level  there  is 
nothing  to  it.  But  every  revolution 
Venezuela  ever  had  started  in  Trinidad, 
and  half  the  merchants  here  have  divvied 
up  with  the  smugglers.  That  old  fox 

101 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Castro  figured  out  that  an  extra  30 
per  cent,  duty  would  square  things, 
and  his  dope  was  about  right.  Gomez, 
the  new  President,  seems  to  think  so, 
anyway." 

"Then  there  is  no  trouble  about  going 
up  the  Orinoco  and  into  the  interior?" 

"  Never  a  bit,"  says  Fitzgerald.  "The 
Venezuelans  are  the  real  goods — dead 
game  sports  and  no  limit." 

"  That  settles  it,"  you  remark.  "  I  am 
going  to  Ciudad  Bolivar  to-morrow  on 
the  'Delta.'" 

Fitzgerald  thinks  a  moment  and  sizes 
you  up  with  a  sidelong  glance.  "  Say, 
I'm  off  for  there  myself  to-morrow  on  my 
launch ;  come  along  with  me." 

You  sweep  a  scrutinizing  glance  over 
him  in  turn  ;  thinking  a  moment,  too,  you 
recall  Jefferson's  shrug  wherein  he  shook 
off  all  responsibility.  Then  you  accept. 

"  Done,"  and  on  it  you  shake. 

You  agree  to  dine  together  at  the  hotel 
1 02 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

that  evening  and  talk  over  ways  and 
means.  Meanwhile  you  start  out  alone 
to  assemble  your  personal  outfit.  The 
Spanish  Baron  is  the  first  man  you  meet. 
"  All  is  decided,"  you  say  gleefully. 

"Ah,  so  monsieur  is  going  on  the 
'  Delta '?" 

11  But  no,  upon  the  launch  of  Monsieur 
Fitzgerald !  " 

The  Baron's  face  goes  pale.  "  That 
launch !  Why,  it  is  only  of  two  tons ; 
you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  cross 
the  Straits,  the  Serpent's  Mouth — it  is 
to  die." 

The  Venezuelan  exile,  Carrera,  comes 
up  the  hotel  steps. 

11  He  is  going  up  the  Orinoco  on  Fitz- 
gerald's little  launch,"  appeals  the  Baron. 
"Cest  se  suicider — let  him  ask  Vicetella, 
of  the  Navigation  Company." 

Carrera  tactfully  shrugs  his  shoulders 
and  says  nothing.  But  a  moment  later 
he  draws  you  to  one  side. 

103 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  Fitzgerald  you  don't  know,  but  he  is 
mixed  up  in  all  sorts  of  things.  A 
filibuster,  partner  of  Jack  Boynton. 
It  was  he  ran  in  the  guns  for  Matas's 
revolution,  packed  in  barrels  of  lard/' 

On  the  streets  you  meet  Robertson, 
the  British  merchant.  "  Seriously,  it  is 
very,  very  dangerous  passing  the  Serpent's 
Mouth,  and  Fitzgerald  is  absolutely  reck- 
less. He's  the  only  man  in  all  Trinidad 
mad  enough  to  go  on  a  trip  like  that." 

Scott,  the  young  American  field  super- 
intendent of  the  oilfields  company,  three 
years  out  of  Princeton,  who  has  been 
listening  to  the  divers  woes  and  alarms, 
grins  at  the  last.  "  I  wish  I  were  going 
too." 

We  meet  Fitzgerald  at  dinner  and  start 
a  list  of  supplies.  It  begins  with  flour 
and  goes  on  down  through  such  stock 
provisions  as  condensed  milk,  baked 
beans,  and  canned  stuff,  ad  lib.  The 
tropic  specialities  Fitzgerald  adds:  a  big 
104 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

mosquito  bar  for  the  whole  back  of  the 
boat,  a  basket  of  limes,  cashew  nuts,  and 
a  box  of  oranges.  Now  come  a  series 
which  elicit  remarks. 

"  Half  a  dozen  hams." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  mouthful  for  a 
fortnight's  trip?"  you  ask. 

"Oh,  they  are  a  present  for  El  Presi- 
dente,  the  Governor  of  the  State  of 
Bolivar." 

"  Put  down  one  case  of  champagne." 

"  Are  you  going  to  swim  up  an  Orinoco 
of  fizz,  or  do  you  nourish  the  crew  on 
champagne  ? "  asks  Scott. 

"Oh  no.  It  goes  as  presents  to  the 
officials  of  the  Aduana — the  Custom 
House,  you  know.  Put  down  a  ten-pound 
box  of  chocolates — for  the  wives  of  the 
officials  of  the  Aduana.  Add  a  case  of 
beer." 

"Who  is  this  for — us?"  you  inquire. 

"  No,  for  the  Jefes  Civiles  in  the  little 
towns — the  mayors,  you  know.  Put 

105 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

down   five   boxes   of    Havana    cigars    for 
the  Commandantes." 

"  You  have  forgotten  the  wives  of  the 
Commandantes  and  the  Jefes,"  suggests 
Scott. 

"  Good  !  I  am  glad  you  reminded  me," 
says  Fitzgerald.  "Add  candy  in  jars  for 
them.  Now  put  down  two  dozen  bottles 
of  rum  for  the  minorJCustom  House  people 
and  the  boatmen ;  they  can't  get  along 
without  rum." 

This  completes  the  bill,  and  you  put 
the  list  away.  Fitzgerald  gives  a  most 
improper  wink  and  sighs  luxuriously,  for 
dinner  has  been  completed  and  we  are 
sitting  on  the  hotel  piazza  sipping  bad 
coffee  and  smoking  good  cigars.  Across 
the  road  are  the  telephone  lines  of  the  city. 

"  Did  any  one  ever  tell  you  how  the 
first  telephone  in  Trinidad  came  to  be 
put  up?"  asks  Fitzgerald  meditatively. 

You   have   not   heard,  and   neither   has 
Scott. 
106 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

"  A  friend  of  mine — whom  I  will  not 
name — managed  it,"  he  goes  on  medita- 
tively. "  It  was  this  way :  A  certain 
President  of  one  of  the  South  American 
Republics  wanted  a  police  telephone  put  in 
at  his  capitol.  The  price  to  be  paid  was 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars.  The  tele- 
phone was  to  cost  about  eight  thousand, 
and  five  people  were  to  split  up  the 
balance.  We  got  a  first  payment  of  six 
thousand  dollars,  all  in  silver,  from  the 
National  Treasury,  and  carried  it  away 
in  a  cart.  The  President  of  course  got 
his  rake-off  in  a  separate  bag,  which  we 
sent  around  first. 

"  Then  the  four  others  sat  down,  two 
of  them  Cabinet  Ministers,  to  slice  up 
their  melon.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  the 
Minister  of  Frumento,  who  was  fat,  puff- 
ing and  perspiring  in  his  shirtsleeves 
that  night  making  piles  of  the  pesos. 

"  But  that  is  all  the  money  we — that 
is,  my  friend — got.  The  President  was 

107 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

killed  and  a  new  President  came  in.  Not 
long  after,  his  secretary  called  on  my  friend. 

'"Look/  he  said.  'You  have  not  built 
the  telephones  for  which  you  have  con- 
tracted.' He  thought  we  would  give  up. 
But  my  friend,  who  had  ordered  the  tele- 
phones on  credit,  figured  out  that  there 
were  pickings  on  what  was  left,  so  he 
said  :  '  I  will  carry  out  the  contract ;  give 
me  the  thirteen  thousand  dollars  re- 
maining.' 

"  The  President's  secretary  reversed  his 
engines  fast,  for  the  Government  had  no 
money  left.  '  No,  no  1  Not  that ! '  He 
thought  awhile,  then  said  :  '  As  a  great 
favour  to  you  I  will  get  the  contract  can- 
celled for  nothing.'  My  friend  let  it  go. 
There  was  not  enough  left  in  the  deal  for 
the  new  President.  So  the  contract  was 
cancelled  and  the  telephones  were  brought 
over  and  put  up  here  in  Trinidad." 

Methuselah  comes  to  tell  Scott  that 
one  of  his  foremen  has  called  him  up 
1 08 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

from  San  Fernando  to  ask  about  a  drilling 
bit  that  is  being  rethreaded  in  the  Govern- 
ment iron  foundry  here  in  Port  of  Spain. 
He  goes  out  to  reply,  and  we  muse 
upon  the  devious  ways  by  which  progress 
comes. 

11  But  that  other  city  never  got  its 
police  telegraph,"  Fitzgerald  remarks. 

We  go  next  day  to  the  Venezuelan 
Consul,  who  has  been  appointed  only  three 
days.  "They've  bounced  the  Consuls 
four  times  in  the  last  year,"  whispers  Fitz- 
gerald. We  sign  many  papers  for  clear- 
ance, and  enrol  at  the  Consulate  as 
"  captain  and  first  officer  respectively  of 
the  gasolene  launch  '  Geraldo,'  2^  tons 
burden,  24  feet  long,  crew  of  two,  laden 
with  ship's  supplies." 

The  inwardness  of  the  proceeding  is 
this :  A  passenger  is  forbidden  by  the 
most  stringent  possible  law  from  landing 
in  Venezuela  at  any  spot  where  there  is 
not  a  "  puerto  habiltado,"  or  licensed  port 

109 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

with  a  custom-house.  There  is  not  one 
of  these  piiertos  between  the  Orinoco 
mouth  and  Ciudad  Bolivar,  400  miles 
up.  A  passenger  for  Pedernales,  at 
one  of  the  mouths  of  the  river,  is 
bound  to  go  to  Ciudad  Bolivar  without 
touching  foot  to  ground,  pass  the  customs, 
and  then  come  back.  To  disobey  means 
arrest,  jail,  fines,  and  endless  trouble  to 
the  diplomatic  representatives  of  which- 
soever foreign  Government  has  to  dig  the 
culprit  out.  But  the  officer  of  a  vessel 
is  a  bird  of  another  colour.  It  is  not 
only  his  pleasure  but  his  duty  to  land 
and  present  his  papers  and  his  compli- 
ments to  the  Commandantes  and  other 
officials  on  the  way  up.  And  what  Com- 
mandante  is  such  a  particularist  in  the 
law  of  Caracas  as  to  prevent  his  amigos, 
once  landed,  from  taking  a  stroll  or  getting 
a  shot  at  some  alligators  ?  Voyez  vous  ? 

Many  prominent   citizens  of  Venezuela 
are  in   the   Consulate  of  Port   of  Spain, 
no 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

Three  or  four  have  the  onerous  duty 
of  putting  a  rubber  stamp  on  the 
clearance  papers,  charging  some  six- 
teen dollars  for  their  labours.  Other 
patriots  are  on  hand  to  hold  converse 
with  the  Consul  and  smoke  cigarettes, 
while  the  talk  over  the  sizzling  politics 
of  the  home  country  goes  back  and  forth. 
General  Desham,  President  of  the  State 
of  Miranda,  said  to  be  the  best  revolver 
shot  in  Venezuela,  is  here.  He  has  several 
mining  concessions  in  his  pocket.  Car- 
rera,  the  rubber  man,  is  here,  and  the 
Spanish  Baron.  The  Consulate  is  like  a 
club-house. 

Very  courteous  they  all  are,  giving  us 
letters  to  their  friends  up  the  river  and 
offering  cigarettes  ad  libitum.  After  an 
hour  we  break  away  and  reach  the 
launch. 

The  wharf-boys  have  loaded  the  side 
of  the  Custom  House  dock  with  a  moun- 
tain of  supplies.  It  is  a  miracle  how  so 

in 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

much  of  it  gets  stored  away  in  the  little 
lockers.  The  beer  and  champagne  bottles 
go  aft,  bereft  of  their  straw  covers,  which 
are  strewn  about  the  water  in  front  of 
the  Custom  House  like  fallen  leaves  in 
autumn.  Flour,  baking-powder,  hams, 
cans  of  beans,  potted  meats,  tins  of 
biscuit — these  and  many  more  go  into 
the  side  lockers  and  drawers.  Engine- 
oil  and  carbide  are  tucked  away  forward. 
Your  modest  bag  of  clothes  has  to  stand 
on  deck  behind  the  engine,  the  pneumatic 
mattress  and  the  cartridge  box  along- 
side it. 

When  at  last  the  "Geraldo"  is  fully 
laden,  with  a  mountain  of  cargo  on  .  the 
midships  deck  because  it  cannot  be 
stowed,  the  launch  looks  seriously  over- 
loaded. At  that  moment  a  big  row-boat, 
pulled  by  two  negroes,  comes  alongside. 
Its  entire  stern  is  laden  with  red  wooden 
boxes  containing  ten-gallon  gasolene 
tins — sixteen  of  them.  To  your  horror 

112 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

you  find  that  Fitzgerald  proposes  to  load 
these  too  into  the  "Geraldo." 

There  is  nothing  for  it,  however.  Fuel 
must  be  provided  and  gasolene  must  be 
carried.  It  is  passed  aboard  while  you 
stand  aghast.  The  whole  floor  of  the 
launch,  save  a  small  space  beside  the 
engines,  is  piled  as  high  as  the  seats 
with  gasolene  tins  and  other  goods.  The 
Custom  House  authorities  will  not  let 
gasolene  be  loaded  even  from  the  dock. 
The  launch  has  become  a  very  floating 
powder-magazine. 

With  many  misgivings,  you  climb  in 
and  perch  on  the  cargo.  The  two  boys 
that  compose  the  crew  let  go  the  moorings 
and  you  are  off.  "  Be  careful  in  the 
Serpent's  Mouth,"  calls  Captain  Hunt,  of 
the  Customs.  He  shakes  his  head  and 
goes  back  into  his  office  on  the  dock. 

We  have  started.  Will  we  arrive? 
The  two  boys  casually  light  up  cigarettes 
as  they  sit  on  the  forward  pile  of 
i  113 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

gasolene  tins,  but  they  throw  them  over- 
board in  double-quick  time  on  order  of 
the  first-officer.  The  frightfully  over- 
loaded boat,  flat-bottomed,  of  Q-inch 
draught,  ploughs  through  the  smooth 
water  in  the  lee  of  the  land  without  too 
much  labour.  But  a  half  mile  out  the 
waves  are  choppy.  The  exhaust  is  partly 
submerged  and  the  gases  puff  and  snort 
in  protest  as  the  seas  block  their  outlet. 
An  explosive  back-fire  from  time  to  time 
barks  a  sinister  warning. 

You  sit  on  the  cushions  and  worry  for 
a  while.  Usually  a  launch-owner,  if  he 
does  not  mind  his  own  life,  is  careful  of 
his  property.  It  takes  not  much  seaman- 
ship to  tell  you  that  to  go  a  mile  in  a 
boat  so  loaded  is  a  nice  juicy  risk,  let 
alone  crossing  the  Gulf  of  Paria  and 
passing  the  reefs  of  the  Serpent's  Mouth. 
There  doesn't  seem,  however,  to  be  any 
practical  way  of  backing  out  now. 

Fitzgerald  appears  himself  to  realize 
114 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

for  the  first  time  what  sort  of  trip  it  is 
he  has  so  insouciantly  proposed.  He  is 
a  little  nervous  and  voluble.  You  learn 
for  the  first  time  with  a  touch  of  dismay 
that  this  is  a  new  launch  and  that  his 
former  trips  up  the  Orinoco  have  been 
made  in  the  2oo-foot  "  Delta." 

"  Is  there  a  chart?"  you  ask. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  one,"  he  says. 

But  a  lengthy  search  fails  to  produce 
it.  It  has  gone  overboard  or  been  left, 
or  is  buried  hopelessly  in  the  inextricable 
mound  of  luggage. 

Now  the  engine  stops,  a  mile  from 
land,  and  we  toss  about  in  the  trough 
of  the  waves. 

"  Joe,  come  back  and  turn  this  fly- 
wheel," orders  Fitzgerald. 

Joe,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  jet  black, 
shambles  astern.  He  has  forgotten  to 
throw  away  a  new  cigarette  he  has  been 
smoking  on  the  sly,  up  forward,  hidden 
by  the  gasolene  tins.  In  a  sulky,  half- 

"5 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

hearted  way,  his  second  cigarette  having 
gone  the  way  of  the  first,  Joe  turns  the 
flywheel.  Not  an  explosion,  not  a  buzz. 
He  turns  it  again  and  again  and  then  a 
few  more  times.  Not  a  spark. 

"  Something  must  be  wrong,"  says  Fitz- 
gerald. Nobody  contradicts  him.  "  I 
think  it  is  the  spark-plug,"  he  adds. 
He  unscrews  the  spark-plug.  Nothing 
seems  to  be  wrong  there.  Joe  turns  the 
wheel  some  more. 

"  Charlie,  you  come  and  turn  the 
wheel ! "  shouts  Fitzgerald.  Charlie  is 
about  seventeen  years  old,  a  mixture  of 
Chinese,  negro  and  white  in  an  unknown 
ratio.  His  arms  are  skinny,  and  he  is 
far  less  strong  than  Joe,  who  is  an  able- 
bodied  wharf-rat.  Charlie's  performance 
at  the  wheel  is  not  a  success.  Joe  has 
to  try  again. 

It  takes  three  hours  of  this  to  run 
down  the  trouble.  We  are  so  loaded  in 
the  bow,  by  the  gasolene  tins,  that  the 
116 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

tank  is  too  low  to  feed  into  the  engine. 
We  move  several  tins  aft,  and  just 
as  the  sun  goes  down  we  get  started 
again. 

You  stop  worrying.  Things  are  too 
bad  to  think  about.  You  dig  out  a  tin 
of  sardines  and  some  crackers,  and, 
reclining  on  the  luggage,  make  a  scratch 
meal.  Joe  takes  the  helm  and  is  told 
to  steer  for  the  Southern  Cross.  Fitz- 
gerald comes  astern,  joins  in  the  crackers 
and  sardines,  and  digs  out  some  liquids 
as  well.  The  sun  goes  down  and  the 
stars  .pome  out  over  the  waste  of  waters. 
It  is  a  wonderfully  beautiful  night  and 
the  sea  is  dead  calm.  The  engine  throbs 
away  regularly :  the  troubles  of  the  start 
seem  to  have  been  all  smoothed  away. 

Fitzgerald  gets  out  a  mouth-organ 
from  somewhere  and  wheezes  complac- 
ently a  medley  of  Venezuelan  and  Ameri- 
can airs— *  Gloria  al  Peublo,"  "The 
Swanee  River,"  "La  Paloma."  He 

117 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

sings  an  ancient   ditty  about   a  girl   who 
declares  to  her  lover : — 


"  My  father  was  a  Spanish  merchant, 

And  the  day  he  sailed  away, 
He  bade  that  I  should  answer  *  No,  sir,' 
To  whatever  you  should  say." 

The  resourceful  lover  promptly  asks  if 
she  would  refuse  him  if  he  offered  his 
hand.  She  answers  "  No,  sir,"  and  they 
all  live  happy  ever  afterwards. 

Fitzgerald  is  entertaining.  He  doubt- 
less feels  twinges  from  a  conscience 
somewhat  battered  by  ten  years'  knocking 
around  South  America,  for  he  exerts 
himself  to  make  you  forget  the  troubles 
of  starting  and  the  overloaded  powder- 
magazine  on  which  you  are  reclining 
and  smoking  Jamaica  "  Tropicals." 
Helped  out  by  a  ball-bearing  imagination 
and  a  few  drinks,  his  memoirs  become 
truly  worth  their  cost.  A  filibuster,  a 
captain  in  the  United  States  Army,  a 
118 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

police  chief  in  Peru,  a  lobbyist  in  Caracas, 
a  circus  proprietor  in  Ecuador,  an  official 
photographer  in  Panama,  exhibitor  of  the 
first  Edison  phonographs  along  the  west 
coast,  which  cleaned  him  up  two  hundred 
thousand  in  a  year,  a  fugitive  riding 
200  miles  and  holding  up  passers-by  for 
fourteen  horses  in  escaping  from  an  out- 
raged Government  in  Chili,  fashionable 
photographic  artist  of  Ciudad  Bolivar 
and  the  representative  of  large  capitalists 
who  are  on  the  point  of  investing  in  rail- 
roads, rubber,  timber,  et  al.,  in  Venezuela 
— this  is  our  interesting  host  and  superior 
officer,  Fitzgerald,  of  the  launch  "Geraldo." 

We  smoke  for  a  while  in  silence. 

"Did  you  ever  read  Lord  Byron's 
poetry?"  he  asks. 

You  allow  that  you  have  a  bowing 
acquaintance  with  Byron. 

"  I  think  '  Don  Juan '  is  the  greatest 
poem  that  was  ever  written."  He  pro- 
duces a  volume  evidently  bound  by  a 

119 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Spaniard,  since  Byron  is  spelled  "  Vyron." 
Most  Venezuelans  pronounce  the  words 
beginning  with  v,  such  as  "vaca,"  cow, 
as  if  the  v  were  b — "  baca."  So  the 
Spanish  bookbinder  assumed  that  Byron 
should  be  Vyron.  Long  sections  of  "  Don 
Juan"  regale  you  now,  read  beneath  the 
swinging  lantern.  At  last  Fitzgerald 
shuts  the  book  regretfully. 

"  I  used  to  write  poems,"  he  says  mus- 
ingly. "  Here  is  one  which  I  wrote  in 
Cuba : — 

"Roll  on,  roll  on,  ye  wheels  of  steel, 
You  bear  us  on  to  woe  or  weal, 
You  bring  the  bitter  and  the  sweet, 
The  flowers  and  the  sugar  beet. 
Some  are  carried  for  commercial  use, 
Yon  sugar-mill  will  use  the  juice 
To  start  the  smiles  of  your  sweetheart 
And  ease  the  sorrow  when  you  part." 

" Can't  we  make  the  last  a  little  clearer?" 
you  suggest.     "  Does  the  sugar-juice  get 
made-  into  sweets  or  rum  ?     It  really  isn't 
the  thing  to  offer  a  young  lady — rum." 
120 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

"  It  is  candy,  of  course,"  says  Fitz- 
gerald indignantly.  "  Everybody  will 
understand." 

The  launch  plugs  away  into  the  night, 
and  at  length  you  fall  into  an  uneasy 
sleep  on  the  cushions.  Shortly  before 
dawn  you  wake.  There  is  a  sound  of 
voices.  Joe  is  explaining  something  in 
an  insolent  drawl  and  Fitzgerald  is 
swearing  in  an  eminently  capable  manner. 
Land  is  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Fitzgerald 
turns  indignantly  to  you.  "  This  damn 
fool  boy  has  steered  us  into  the  middle 
of  the  Gulf  of  Paria  instead  of  going 
south  along  the  coast.  We  ought  to  be 
at  Cedros  Point  now,  and  Heaven  knows 
where  we  are." 

We  set  a  course  due  west  to  get  into 
touch  with  Trinidad  again.  The  ship's 
officers  judge  it  best  to  take  the  wheel 
personally  this  time.  About  nine  o'clock 
land  is  sighted.  On  going  closer  in,  the 
long  pier  of  the  Asphalt  Company  and 

121 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

their  boats  at  anchor  are  seen.  We  are 
only  to  San  Fernando,  half-way  down  the 
island,  instead  of  being  at  the  extreme 
south-west  point,  which  we  had  expected 
to  strike  in  the  early  morning  so  as  to 
cross  the  Serpent's  Mouth  at  flood-tide, 
when  the  ocean  pushes  back  the  Orinoco 
current  and  carries  one  into  the  river  mouth. 

This  is  exasperating,  but  there  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  eat  more  biscuits 
and  sardines  and  steer  south  again.  We 
give  the  wheel  to  Charlie,  watching  him 
like  hawks,  however,  and  go  back  to  the 
cushions  in  the  stern. 

"  I  never  told  you  how  I  joined  the 
U.S.  Army,  did  I  ? "  inquires  Fitzgerald. 

"You  did  not." 

"  Well,  it  was  this  way.  When  the 
Spanish  War  broke  out  I  was  putting 
up  a  telephone  line  in  Barbados.  Just 
as  soon  as  I  heard  that  the  Americans 
had  occupied  Porto  Rico  I  dropped  every- 
thing and  jumped  on  board  a  sailing- 

122 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

vessel.  When  we  got  to  Porto  Rico  a 
young  lieutenant  would  not  let  me  land 
on  account  of  the  blockade.  I  said,  '  Take 
this  note  to  the  General,'  and  wrote  on 
a  slip  of  paper,  '  An  American  who  speaks 
Spanish  as  good  as  he  does  English  isn't 
allowed  to  land.'  In  an  hour  they  had 
me  on  shore  and  made  me  interpreter  for 
the  General  Now,  you  know,  I  am  an 
engineer."  This  you  are  quite  prepared 
to  believe.  "And  it  was  not  long  before 
they  put  me  in  charge  of  the  port  works, 
to  handle  all  the  workmen  that  loaded 
and  unloaded.  The  General  said  he 
wanted  me  regular,  so  they  gave  me  a 
captain's  commission  in  the  6gth  New 
York  Volunteers.  I  liked  the  job.  Every- 
thing was  mixed  up,  and  I  was  drawing 
two  salaries — one  from  the  United  States 
as  captain,  and  one  from  the  Provisional 
Government  of  the  island.  I  had  a 
regular  contract  for  serving  as  Port 
Engineer,  and  I  held  the  men  to  their 

123 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

work.  One  of  my  superiors  had  tried  to 
get  me  to  sign  a  contract  which  was  half 
graft,  and  I  blocked  it  and  got  him  fired. 
I  am  for  graft  every  time  here  in  South 
America  when  you're  after  something,  but 
it  ain't  right  when  you're  in  our  service. 

"  Then  a  new  General  came,  and  he 
began  sniffing  around.  I  had  a  trucking 
business  on  the  side,  and  he  asked  about 
this  business.  *  Can't  a  man  invest  his 
money  as  he  likes  ? '  I  said.  Soon  he 
got  fussy  about  my  salaries,  and  tried  to 
stop  one  of  them.  I  got  pretty  sore  at 
this.  I  had  a  contract  for  a  year,  and  I 
made  him  come  across.  Then  I  resigned, 
and  all  the  men  went  on  strike  because 
they  liked  me. 

"  In  three  days  he  was  around  begging 
me  to  come  back.  In  time  I  relented  and 
said  I  would  straighten  out  his  strike 
for  him,  so  I  went  down  with  a  couple 
of  kegs  of  beer  and  gave  the  dockers  a 
talk.  I  told  them  that  the  new  man  was 
124 


:*••••  :••  :•  1 1 

•**.:'•:•:•• 
•   ••••%•••• 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

a  better  fellow  than  he  seemed,  and  they 
must  do  right  by  him.  I  told  them  I 
was  tired  of  the  job  and  could  make 
more  money.  The  old  General  offered 
me  a  commission  in  the  Regulars  if  I 
would  go  to  the  Philippines  with  him. 
But  a  tornado  had  struck  Porto  Rico,  and 
there  was  a  lot  of  contract  work  to  be 
done  on  the  island,  so  I  resigned  ;  I  wish 
sometimes  I  had  stayed  in  the  service." 
Being  a  little  downcast,  he  gets  out  the 
mouth-organ  again. 

In  due  time  we  are  off  Cedros  Point, 
that  long,  narrow  neck  of  land  which 
pointed  to  the  Conquistadores  the  way  to 
the  Orinoco  and  El  Dorado.  Venezuela 
is  not  in  sight ;  we  pass  the  point  and 
enter  the  Serpent's  Mouth.  The  tide-race 
of  which  Columbus  wrote  to  the  King  of 
Spain  is  marked  only  by  ripples. 

The  swell  of  the  sea  in  long,  smooth 
waves  over  which  we  glide  presently  grips 
the  "  Geraldo."  The  wind  is  astern,  and 

125 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

we  steer  dead  south.  All  of  a  sudden  the 
boat  turns  completely  around  and  faces 
Trinidad.  Joe  is  at  the  wheel. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  howls 
Fitzgerald.  "  Drop  the  wheel !  "  He  takes 
it  himself.  We  have  not  gone  a  hundred 
yards  before  the  boat  does  the  same  thing 
again.  The  tiller  is  helpless.  Some 
whirlpool  has  swung  the  boat  about 
bodily,  though  only  a  little  swirl  on  the 
surface  shows  the  whirlpool's  location.  No 
harm  done,  but  it  jerks  one's  nerves  a  little. 

The  wind  freshens  measurably.  White 
caps  are  on  the  waves.  Gulls  fly  by, 
shrieking  hoarsely,  or  poise  alongside. 
The  wind  is  still  astern. 

Up  ahead  now  looms  a  solitary  rock, 
the  Sentinel — "  El  Soldado."  Sharp  and 
menacing  it  stands.  We  steer  to  seaward 
of  it,  as  we  are  making  for  one  of  the 
eastern  outlets  of  the  river  and  the  wind 
is  favouring  us. 

But  is  the  wind  favouring  us  ?  It  has 
126 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

changed,  and  is  blowing  every  moment 
more  heavily  in  towards  Soldado  from  the 
sea  on  our  beam.  The  tide  is  going  the 
same  way — always  towards  Soldado.  We 
have  passed  this  to  starboard  now,  and 
can  see  a  line  of  breakers  to  leeward 
where  a  mile-long  row  of  jagged  rocks 
runs  shoreward. 

"  It  is  lucky  that  blighted  engine  has 
not  balked  again,"  you  remark.  "  We 
would  be  on  the  rocks  in  ten  minutes  if 
it  did."  Hardly  are  the  words  spoken 
before  the  engine  gives  a  couple  of  gasps, 
starts  convulsively  again,  gives  a  last  dull 
explosion,  and — stops. 

One  does  a  lot  of  quick  thinking  at 
such  a  time.  If  the  boat  goes  to  pieces 
on  those  reefs  to  leeward,  can  we  swim 
athwart  the  current  to  Soldado,  or  will 
we  be  swept  past  it  and  have  to 
swim  the  six  miles  to  Venezuela?  Can 
we  climb  Soldado's  steep  sides  if  we 
do  reach  it?  Will  we  be  picked  off  en 

127 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

route    by   a    shark? — the    water    is    alive 
with    them.      Will    we    have    to    wait    a 
fortnight  without  water  for  a  boat  to  take 
us  off  if  we  do  get   to  the  rock  ?     Fitz- 
gerald fiddles  with  his  engine.     A  friend 
has  given  you  a  pneumatic  mattress.    This 
will  make  a  good  life-preserver  if  you  have 
to   swim  to  Venezuela.     You   blow  it  up, 
put  it  in  the  stern,  and  look  at  the  rocks. 
We    are   a   bare    hundred    yards    from 
the   breakers !     We   had   not    figured    on 
the   rapidity   of    the    tide — six    miles    an 
hour    it    runs    here.     You    jump    to    the 
anchor    and    heave    it    over.      The     line 
runs   through    your    fingers    so    fast   that 
you   cannot  fasten   it   to   a   cleat.     In  the 
last  six  feet  of  line   you   catch  it   braced 
around   the   tiller  and  make  it  fast.     But 
the    anchor    can    barely    slow    down    the 
speed  of  drifting.     You   get  the  mattress 
ready   and    stand    oar    in    hand   to   push 
past   between  the  reefs   if  it   is   possible. 

Joe   and    Charlie    watch    stupidly  at    the 
128 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

bow.  Everything  has  happened  so 
quickly  that  their  low-geared  thinking 
apparatus  has  not  had  time  to  work. 
Fitzgerald  stands  grimly  by  his  engine. 
Not  a  word  is  said.  Then  ten  feet  away 
appears  a  wave-lashed  rock  in  advance 
of  the  partly  submerged  reefs.  The 
launch  has  drifted  to  the  northward,  and 
this  is  a  spur  higher  than  the  rest 
which  you  had  not  seen.  It  is  right  at 
hand.  "This  ends  it,"  you  think,  stand- 
ing on  the  stern,  mattress  in  hand.  The 
main  emotion  you  have  is  of  utter 
disgust  at  the  whole  proceeding. 

The  current  boils  around  the  end  of 
the  rock.  But  to  your  paralysed  aston- 
ishment, instead  of  crashing  into  it  the 
boat  is  swirled  around  its  point.  The 
anchor-rope  has  caught  on  some  provi- 
dential point  and  we  swing  into  the  slack 
back-water  behind — safe  for  a  moment. 
You  look  stupidly  at  the  rock,  astounded 
at  not  being  battered  against  it.  Fitz- 
K  129 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

gerald  shows  real  clean  grit  and  presence 
of  mind.  He  gives  his  engine  a  turn, 
and  in  this  smooth  water  it  makes  two 
expiring  kicks  and  stops.  But  these 
two  are  enough  to  bring  us  to  the  lee  side 
of  the  spur.  We  grapple  it  with  pike 
poles.  Joe  is  pushed  ashore  with  the  end 
of  the  anchor-rope  and  a  big  fish  line, 
doubled,  is  heaved  over  and  made  fast 
to  a  jagged  point  of  rock.  We  are  safe. 

The  two  boys  stare  stupidly  back  at 
the  row  of  reefs.  You  look  to  the 
lashings.  Fitzgerald  takes  a  deep  breath, 
glances  around,  and  then  makes  for  the 
locker.  He  gets  out  a  bottle  of  the 
champagne,  sacred  to  official  entertain- 
ment, and  as  the  launch  heaves  giddily 
with  the  swell,  in  the  lee  of  the  rock  all 
hands  take  a  drink. 

After  a  council  of  war  it  seems  best  to 

stay   here   until   the   tide  changes   or   the 

wind  dies  down.     The  engine  is  doctored 

up  until  it  is  apparently  in  perfect  order. 

130 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

The  boys,  with  oars  and  pike  poles,  hold 
the  boat  from  battering  against  the  spur. 
We  officers  bathe  in  pools  on  the  rock, 
not  venturing  into  the  sea  alongside  be- 
cause the  sharks  are  reputed  to  like  white 
meat.  Around  the  line  of  reefs  the  peli- 
cans and  gulls  are  fishing. 

At  about  four  o'clock  we  cast  off  from 
the  rock  that  gave  us  shelter.  We  make 
for  the  main  channel  towards  Trinidad 
to  avoid  the  line  of  reefs.  The  tide  still 
flows  westward,  but  we  figure  that  it  will 
be  ebb  shortly,  and  we  must  make  land 
by  nightfall.  Soldado  is  on  our  lee  now. 
We  steer  so  as  to  get  from  in  front  of 
it  as  fast  and  as  straight  as  possible. 
The  engine  stops  again ! 

The  boys  take  the  oars  and  try  to  pull 
us  out  of  the  danger  zone.  But  the  heavy 
boat  makes  no  way.  Down  every  moment, 
closer  to  Soldado  we  go.  The  multitudes 
of  gulls  and  water-birds  that  rest  on  it 
take  alarm  and  fly  out  till  the  air  is  dark 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

with  them.  Two  hundred  yards  from  the 
crag  the  engine  is  started  once  more.  You 
grasp  the  tiller,  look  back  so  as  to  take  the 
shortest  line  past  Soldado — and  the  launch 
wears  clear  of  it  a  hundred  yards  away. 

The  reefs  are  all  to  windward  now, 
the  Venezuelan  coast  ahead.  The  wind 
is  right  to  make  the  Pedernales  or  the 
Vagre  mouth. 

As  the  boat  heads  inland  the  water 
gets  a  lighter  and  lighter  brown.  It  is 
evidently  shoaling.  Sandbanks  and 
nest  of  submerged  rocks  lying  here,  is 
your  memory  of  the  chart.  Joe  hastily 
heads  out  to  sea  and  for  a  spell  we 
go  parallel  to  the  coast.  The  waves 
strike  our  quarter — huge  white-capped 
mountains  of  water.  If  one  of  them  hits 
the  boat  right  and  fills  it,  we — swim. 

This  situation  is  intolerable.     We  may 

be  swamped  any  moment.      To  stay   out 

six   miles    from    land    in    this   weather   is 

as    risky    as    the    hazard    of    the    rocks. 

132 


The  Serpent's  Mouth 

"We've  got  to  get  in,"  you  say  at  last, 
and  take  the  helm.  Straight  for  the  sup- 
posed location  of  the  Pedernales  passage, 
with  the  wind  nearly  astern,  you  steer, 
taking  the  chance  of  reef  and  shoal, 
lifted  now  high  on  the  crests  of  great 
following  waves,  the  boat  leaping  for- 
ward, buried  now  deep  in  their  trough. 

Joe  is  sent  to  heave  the  lead  from 
time  to  time.  He  has  picked  up  this 
knack  and  does  his  job  fairly  well. 
Heave :  "  Five  fathoms,  sir."  Heave : 
"Four  fathoms,  sir."  Heave:  " Three 
and  a  half,  sir." 

We  are  down  to  two  and  a  half 
fathoms,  the  water  is  yellow,  a  rock 
spouts  to  port,  the  sweep  of  the  waves 
hurls  us  up  and  down  like  a  cork,  but 
we  keep  straight  on.  The  coast  of 
Venezuela  gets  more  and  more  distinct — 
a  long  green  wall  of  mangrove  trees. 
Ahead  is  a  break  in  their  green  expanse 
for  which  we  are  steering.  The  sun  is 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

nearly  down.  We  get  almost  to  the 
break  in  the  trees — we  see  the  smooth 
water  beyond  them. 

Right  at  the  edge  where  sea  meets 
river,  the  water  is  churned  into  a  tempest 
of  short,  sharp  waves.  We  sweep  into 
them  and  are  shaken  like  a  rat  in  a 
terrier's  mouth  for  a  hundred  yards.  Then, 
just  as  the  sun  goes  down,  we  glide  behind 
the  trees  into  the  peace  of  the  Orinoco. 

For  half  an  hour  we  ascend  the  river 
between  the  silent  forests.  Then  sud- 
denly the  rudder-wire  snaps,  worn 
through.  We  cannot  use  the  wheel,  so 
you  go  aft  and  steer  by  pushing  the 
tiller  with  your  feet.  Lucky  this  mishap 
also  did  not  befall  us  an  hour  earlier ! 
The  night  falls  with  its  usual  rapidity  in 
the  tropics.  We  see  a  glimmering  light 
ashore,  some  dimly  outlined  machinery. 
We  make  for  it  and  tie  up  to  the  bank. 

"We  have  thrown  dice  with  the  Devil 
and  won  out/'  says  Fitzgerald. 


IV 
UP  THE   ORINOCO 

A  SHADOWY  figure  appears  above 
^~^  us.  "  Who's  there  ?  "  a  voice  calls. 
We  stumble  up  the  bank  and  onto  a 
crumbling  concrete  platform  with  a  rusted 
iron  framework  built  above  it  and  scraps 
of  broken  machinery  underfoot.  Into 
the  uncertain  light  of  the  lantern  comes 
a  well-built  and  almost  white  mulatto, 
clad  in  a  ragged  shirt,  trousers,  and  a 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat.  He  reaches 
out  to  shake  our  hands. 

11  You  Trinidad  men  ?  "  he  asks  ;  "  I  am 
Englishman,  too." 

A  big  negro  and  a  little  Venezuelan 
mestizo  appear  from  the  darkness.  They 
talk  together  in  Spanish. 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

The  boys  work  stolidly  at  the  pumps, 
for  we  have  shipped  much  water.  Dead 
tired,  you  sit  on  the  bank  waiting  for 
this  necessary  task  to  finish.  A  half- 
dozen  mosquitoes  appear  and  you  brush 
them  away.  But  now  it  is  a  score  that  are 
assailing  you,  every  moment  more.  You 
feel  the  stings  in  a  dozen  places  at  once. 
The  swarm  is  around  you  like  a  cloud. 

The  natives,  bitten  themselves  but  not 
so  badly,  do  not  at  first  notice  our 
martyrdom.  The  Trinidad  boy  perceives 
it  first.  He  grins  broadly. 

"  Mosquito  very  bad  one  here,"  he 
says.  "  I  making  fire  for  you."  He 
scrapes  together  an  armful  of  dried  grass 
and  lights  it  in  the  lee  of  an  engine 
which  is  falling  to  pieces  from  rust. 
Standing  full  in  the  smoke  the  mos- 
quitoes are  not  so  bad.  We  ask  him 
how  he  bears  them. 

"  I    must,    I    watchman     here.      They 
being  very  bad,  but  I  used  to  them." 
136 


Up  the  Orinoco 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"  Tom." 

For  a  while,  with  streaming  eyes,  we 
stand  in  the  smudge.  Tom  is  lost  in 
thought. 

"  Have   you  gun?"   he   presently  asks. 

We  say  that  we  have. 

"  Will  you  shoot  me  tiger  that  come 
into  building  nights  ?  " 

We  get  back  to  the  boats  and  dig 
out  our  rifles  and  an  electric  flash-lamp. 
Machete  in  one  hand  and  flash-lamp  in 
the  other,  Tom  guides  the  way  through 
high  grass.  Old  boilers,  engines,  lathes, 
dump  cars,  all  rusted  and  overgrown 
with  vines,  litter  the  ground.  A  hundred 
yards  from  the  bank  stands  the  skeleton 
of  a  steel  building. 

"There  I  sleep,"  says  Tom,  pointing  to 
a  shelf  high  up  on  the  rafters.  "  At  night 
tiger  come  under." 

We  go  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  a 
ramshackle  narrow  -  gauge  track,  over 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

swampy  ground.  Stiflingly  hot  is  the 
night,  and  the  sweat  streams  down  us. 
We  reach  at  length  a  second  building. 

"  Here  tiger  walk,"  and  Tom  points 
to  some  tracks  on  the  ground.  We  flash 
the  light  around  but  see  no  jaguar. 

The  mosquitoes  are  worse  every  in- 
stant. On  each  exposed  bit  of  skin 
light  the  insect  pests.  They  bite  through 
the  khaki.  Tom's  shirt  is  grey  with  them. 
No  slapping  with  hand  or  handkerchief 
can  keep  them  away.  In  a  hundred 
spots  their  poisoned  needles  pierce  you. 
The  swarm  blinds  you.  You  breathe 
them  in  by  mouth  and  by  nose.  Never 
for  an  instant  is  there  peace.  You  are 
choked,  tortured,  maddened.  You  have 
to  grip  yourself  as  if  for  a  supreme 
struggle  to  keep  from  a  shrieking  stam- 
pede. 

Almost  on  a  run  we  hasten  back  to  the 
first  building  and  start  a  smudge,  and 
as  the  dense  black  cloud  of  smoke  rolls 
138 


Up  the  Orinoco 

up  around  you  and  the  bites  stop  it  is 
like  a  reprieve  from  hell. 

"  Tiger  come  here  later,"  says  Tom, 
and  rolls  a  big  gear-wheel  into  the  smoke 
for  you  to  sit  on.  "  I  cook  dinner." 

Into  a  tin  goes  a  most  uninviting  and 
scraggy  piece  of  meat,  then  plantains  and 
onions,  sliced  with  the  machete.  This 
mixture  is  boiled  over  the  fire.  In  an- 
other tin,  black  coffee  is  brewed.  Fitz- 
gerald goes  back  to  the  boat ;  he  will 
have  none  of  it.  You  do  not  want  to 
hurt  Tom's  feelings,  for  he  has  been  as 
courteous  as  a  grandee,  and  the  tiger  is, 
he  asserts,  due  around.  So  you  try  his 
soup  and  some  of  the  coffee  with  a  piece 
of  cassava  bread.  The  hot  coffee  is  not 
so  very  bad.  The  cassava  bread  looks  like 
a  flat  bath  sponge  and  tastes  as  it  looks. 

The    fire   dies   down.     The   mosquitoes 

come  back  in  swarms,  the  jaguar  does  not 

-  come.     At    last    you    too    retreat    to    the 

boat.      Fitzgerald   is   wideawake,    fighting 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

mosquitoes.  Rabelais  would  blush  at  his 
language. 

You  crawl  beneath  the  mosquito  bar, 
dead  tired,  and  fall  asleep  despite  the 
bites.  It  is  not  for  long,  however ;  in 
three  or  four  hours  you  wake.  The  net 
is  full  of  the  pests,  who  have  either  found 
the  meshes  passable  or  have  located  an 
entrance  underneath.  Your  hands  and 
even  your  body,  covered  by  the  thick 
khaki  cloth,  are  raw  with  their  stings. 
Only  the  utter  exhaustion  of  the  last  two 
days  enabled  you  to  sleep  at  all.  Fitz- 
gerald is  already  up  and  seated  by  a 
smudge.  Haggard  in  the  grey  of  [the 
morning,  with  bleeding  face  and  hands, 
he  looks  as  one  newly  carried  from  the 
torture-chamber. 

At  last  the  sun  comes  out  over  the 
green  forest,  and  the  mosquitoes  no  longer 
besiege  us.  We  are  on  the  border  of  a 
wide  pitch  deposit  covering  several  acres. 
Evidently  extensive  works  to  dig  and 
140 


Up  the  Orinoco 

remove  this  were  started,  a  great  plant- 
equipment  bought,  and  then  the  whole 
thing  abandoned.  It  is  a  battlefield  of 
industrial  defeat.  Only  Tom  is  left  to 
watch  for  a  shilling  a  day  the  shattered 
machinery. 

He  strips  and  dives  into  the  water 
from  the  concrete  landing-stage.  "  Not 
shark  here,"  he  calls.  We  all  bathe  and 
change  our  clothes.  The  world  begins 
to  look  better.  A  pair  of  parrots  fly 
from  the  woods  behind  with  their  loud 
shrieks.  Far  overhead  goes  a  flock  of 
scarlet  ibises.  Gulls  and  divers  skim  by. 
An  egret,  snowy-white  against  the  green 
mangroves,  perches  on  the  opposite  river- 
bank. 

We  clean  up  ship  and  repack,  getting 
in  somewhat  better  shape.  By  eight 
o'clock  we  are  ready,  and  after  leaving 
some  eatables  and  drinkables  as  a  present 
for  Tom  and  his  friends,  we  start  on 
our  belated  way. 

141 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Pedernales  is  about  a  mile  off.  We 
soon  sight  its  straggly  row  of  about 
twenty  low-thatched  adobe  houses,  with 
a  few  dugout  canoes  moored  to  stakes 
in  front,  and  begin  to  steer  shoreward. 
We  land  on  a  pile  of  stones  and 
scramble  up  the  bank.  The  whole 
population  is  on  hand — a  slovenly  outfit 
showing  all  possible  permutations  and 
combinations  of  negro,  Indian,  and 
Spaniard.  One  of  these,  a  little  cleaner 
and  more  authoritative  than  the  rest,  is 
pointed  out  as  the  Commandante. 

Now  comes  the  crucial  time.  How 
are  we  to  be  received  ?  We  are  already 
liable  to  arrest  for  having  landed  last 
night  on  unauthorized  Venezuelan  terri- 
tory. And  our  future  halts  on  the  way 
up  the  Orinoco  depend  on  getting 
domestic  clearance  papers  despite  the 
fact  that  we  come  from  a  foreign  port. 

Fitzgerald  in  any  event  has  the 
assurance  of  an  army  mule.  He  makes 
142 


Up  the  Orinoco 

for  the  Commandante  and  grasps  his 
hand  with  the  warmth  of  a  candidate 
for  Congress  in  a  close  district. 

"  Buenos  dias,  amigo,  com'  esta ! " 
He  starts  to  tell  in  dramatic  Spanish 
the  perils  we  encountered  at  Soldado. 
While  the  Commandante's  mind  is  thus 
kept  occupied,  Joe,  well-coached  before- 
hand, has  appeared  with  a  bottle  of 
whisky  and  some  glasses.  We  have 
edged  up  to  the  official  headquarters  by 
this  time,  and  with  expansive  gestures 
have  invited  all  and  sundry  to  have  a 
drink.  At  the  same  time  our  clearance 
papers  are  handed  to  the  Commandante. 

We  get  rid  of  two  bottles  of  whisky 
at  Pedernales,  and,  after  wringing  the 
hand  of  every  male  inhabitant,  leave 
with  a  paper,  artistically  extracted  from 
an  official  who  is  not  authorized  by  any 
law  under  the  sun  to  give  such  a  docu- 
ment, permitting  us  to  make  stops  on 
the  way  up  the  river.  Fitzgerald,  by 

H3 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

elaborating  upon  your  letters  to  the  Pre- 
sidente  and  adding  his  own  blarney,  has 
bluffed  the  licence  out  of  the  Comman- 
dante. 

"  Very  well  done,  Fitz,"  you  say  as 
the  boat  chugs  out.  And  Fitzgerald 
winks. 

To  go  up  the  Orinoco  by  the  Peder- 
nales  passage  we  have  been  told  to  enter 
the  first  opening  on  the  port  side  after 
passing  a  near-by  point.  We  see  this 
cano,  but  it  looks  too  narrow  to  be  the 
real  one.  So  we  keep  on  going  and 
enter  a  broad  bay  with  rather  choppy 
seas.  After  a  couple  of  miles  of  this  we 
enter  a  wider  passage,  which  turns  out 
to  be  the  rarely  traversed  Vagre  mouth 
of  the  Orinoco. 

The  mangrove-trees  are  like  a  wall 
on  either  side  of  the  broad  still  river. 
All  seem  to  have  reached  a  standard 
height  above  water-level  ;  the  labyrinthic 
network  of  their  roots  drops  from  the 
144 


'. 


Up  the  Orinoco 

branches  to  the  water.  It  is  like  a 
phalanx  of  gigantic  spiders,  standing  in 
the  still  water  with  their  black  legs  inter- 
locked and  bearing  a  burden  of  towering 
foliage  on  their  backs.  No  more  impene- 
trable wall  could  be  devised.  Nothing 
but  monkeys,  birds,  and  crabs  can 
possibly  penetrate  a  mangrove  swamp. 
Of  these  there  is  the  greatest  possible 
number.  Birds  are  everywhere.  Big 
white  and  grey  cranes  are  all  along  the 
river.  Fishers  of  every  kind  dive  down 
beside  the  boat.  Ibises  rise  in  a  flock 
of  scarlet.  The  "croaking  hoatzins," 
relics  of  the  reptilian  age,  strange  birds 
with  fingers  under  their  feathers,  shriek 
and  flop  awkwardly  from  bough  to  bough. 
We  shoot  some,  for  they  are  as  big  as 
pullets  and  look  good  to  eat.  But  they 
smell  badly  and  are  tough  as  mangrove 
stems.  Even  Charlie  and  Joe  decline 
them. 

Less    than    a   day    gets    us    past     the 
L  145 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

mangrove  swamp.  These  trees  still  occur, 
but  there  is  no  longer  the  solid  wall  of 
them.  Land  high  and  dry  has  begun, 
jungle  with  every  kind  of  tree — banana, 
bamboo,  mora,  cedar,  ten-foot  grass, 
creepers  and  vines  swinging  in  matted 
loops.  We  shoot  two  males  of  the  big 
red  howling  monkey,  sitting  on  a  bare 
branch,  and  though  the  tree  out  of  which 
they  fall  is  but  20  feet  from  the 
water's  edge,  it  takes  two  hours  to  find 
a  spot  at  which  to  make  a  landing,  get 
up  the  steep  clay  bank,  and  cut  with 
machetes  a  way  in,  and  we  can  only  get 
one  of  the  monkeys. 

Further  along  we  find  a  landing-place 
where  balata  cutters  have  come.  We 
land  and  ease  our  hunger  with  cold 
victuals  and  coffee.  Two  manatees  poke 
their  noses  up  out  of  the  river  from  time 
to  time  and  snort.  One  never  sees  more 
than  the  nose  of  a  sea-cow,  and  that 
only  for  an  instant.  A  fresh-water  por- 
146 


Up  the  Orinoco 

poise  jumps  up.  More  monkeys  are 
in  the  woods  behind,  but  we  let  them 
alone. 

The  trip  from  Pedernales  is  delight- 
ful. It  is  entirely  cool  and  comfortable 
in  the  moving  boat  even  at  midday. 
The  thermometer  under  the  awning  does 
not  show  over  85°.  We  anchor  at  sun- 
set in  a  shallow  place  amid  stream  and 
not  a  mosquito  appears.  It  is  cool 
at  night — about  68°,  and  even  a  little 
chilly  towards  morning.  A  breeze  from 
the  sea — the  trade  wind — blows  gently 
astern.  The  murmur  of  the  forest  is  on 
either  side.  From  time  to  time  the  snort 
of  a  manatee  breaks  the  stillness,  but  for 
the  rest  all  is  quiet. 

As  on  the  morrow  we  go  on  up  the 
river  we  pass  infrequent  banana  planta- 
tions kept  by  mestizos  and  Guarano 
Indians.  A  native  dugout  passes  silently 
from  time  to  time.  These  Indians  are 
curious  little  people,  hardly  averaging 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

5  feet  high.     We   stop   at   some  of  their 
landing-places. 

In  one  of  the  palm-thatched  shelters 
open  on  all  sides  to  the  wind  are  half  a 
dozen  women  and  children.  They  speak 
no  Spanish  and  seem  to  take  no  interest 
whatever  in  anything.  A  dozen  wicker 
baskets  of  different  shapes  and  sizes  hold 
their  belongings.  With  one  of  these 
baskets,  5  feet  long  and  very  slender, 
they  make  cassava.  Tuberous  roots 
looking  like  elongated  sweet  potatoes, 
taken  from  a  tree  which  is  of  the  same 
family  as  the  Ceara  rubber  plant,  are 
first  peeled  and  washed.  Next  they  are 
grated  on  a  kerosene  tin  which  has  had 
holes  punched  in  k  with  a  nail.  The 
gratings  are  thrown  into  the  long 
narrow  basket  and  squeezed.  Stones  are 
put  upon  it  and  everybody  climbs  onto 
the  stones  to  help  out  the  process.  The 
compression  is  to  get  rid  of  the  juice, 
which  contains  poisonous  hydrocyanic 
148 


Up  the  Orinoco 

acid.  The  lumps  of  meal  remaining  are 
baked  in  flat  cakes  about  2  feet  in 
diameter.  Bread  from  a  deadly  poison! 

A  number  of  children  are  running 
about  in  this  encampment.  One  little 
boy  has  several  scars  scored  in  parallel 
lines  down  his  heel.  "  Caiman  (crocodile)," 
says  his  mother  after  our  repeated 
questions.  The  children  all  have  pro- 
truding stomachs.  Some  say  this  is 
because  they  have  the  rickets ;  some, 
because  they  eat  cassava  bread  and  drink 
water,  a  combination  which  bloats  them ; 
others,  that  it  is  because  the  babies  are 
not  swaddled  after  they  are  born.  Take 
your  choice. 

The  woods  thin  out  in  places  as  we 
ascend  the  Orinoco.  Sandbars  on  which  an 
occasional  crocodile  suns  himself  are  met 
here  and  there.  We  shoot  several,  which 
squirm  back  into  the  water.  In  one  place 
we  get  up  a  carlo  that  leads  nowhere,  and 
have  to  come  back  and  try  again  through 

149 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

a  narrow  gap  down  which  the  river  races 
at  a  good  7  miles  an  hour — so  strong 
a  current  that  we  can  hardly  make  head- 
way. We  run  aground  badly  in  a  wide 
place,  and  have  to  go  overboard,  in  deadly 
fear  of  alligators  and  sting-rays,  and 
push  off. 

At  length,  after  passing  a  big  island, 
we  are  out  of  the  Delta  and  enter  the 
Orinoco  proper.  We  are  running  short 
of  gasolene,  but  Fitzgerald  knows  of  a 
Corsican  woodcutter  a  few  miles  up 
stream  who  can  supply  some.  Shortly 
after  leaving  the  Delta  we  reach  a  town 
situated  on  high  ground  —  Barrancas, 
meaning  the  Sandbanks — and  tie  up 
alongside  one  of  the  war-vessels  of  the 
Venezuelan  Navy. 

This  vessel  is  fully  35  feet  long.  Her 
Captain  is  asleep  in  his  hammock,  with 
one  bare  foot  sticking  through.  We  do 
not  wake  him,  but  get  out  a  bottle  of 
beer  so  as  to  have  it  available.  We  now 
150 


Up  the  Orinoco 

get  the  "  Geraldo "  in  order,  clean  our- 
selves, change  into  some  fresh  linen, 
climb  up  on  to  the  deck  of  the  man-of- 
war,  and  order  its  cocinero  to  boil  our 
coffee. 

In  good  time  El  Capitan  wakes  and  we 
introduce  ourselves.  The  process  is  like 
the  old  nursery  rhyme  about  the  kitty : — 

"  You  pet  her  and  stroke  her  and  feed  her  with  food, 
And  kitty  will  love  you  because  you  are  good." 

"  Will  El  Capitan  sample  some  Trinidad 
beer?" 

El  Capitan  will  "con  mucho  gusto." 

El  Capitan  finds  the  beer  drinkable  and 
the  cigars  smokable.  He  accompanies 
his  amigos  up  to  El  Commandante. 
El  Commandante  finds  the  beer  drink- 
able, the  cigars  good,  and  the  clearance 
papers  in  perfect  order.  He  returns  with 
us  to  the  war-vessel  for  dinner. 

El  Capitan  is  a  mighty  man  of  valour. 
He  has  curly  yellow  hair  and  choleric 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

blue  eyes.  He  possesses  a  sword  a  yard 
and  a  half  long.  A  dozen  Mauser  rifles 
to  arm  the  crew  are  piled  in  the  ward- 
robe among  his  soiled  linen.  His  is  an 
important  post,  for  the  boat  dominates 
this  part  of  the  river,  to  the  terror  of  all 
smugglers,  except,  of  course,  such  as  may 
be  amigos. 

He  mellows  as  the  meal  progresses,  and 
tells  of  an  arrest  he  made  when  he  was 
a  policeman  on  land  before  he  became 
a  ruler  in  the  Presidente's  navee. 

"You  know  the  road  from  Paragua  to 
San  Felix,"  he  starts.  "  I  was  once  riding 
out  on  the  llanos  that  way,  and  I  stopped 
at  a  woman's  house  to  drink  coffee.  I 
heard  a  pedlar  insisting  that  she  buy 
something  which  she  did  not  want  to  buy. 
I  went  in  and  he  became  polite  and  left. 
I  noticed  that  he  was  a  Turk  " — by  which 
El  Capitan  probably  means  an  Armenian. 

"  I  drank  coffee  and  went  on.  Next 
day  I  was  near  there,  and  I  noticed 
152 


Up  the  Orinoco 

vultures  wheeling  around.  When  I  see 
zamuros  I  always  go  look  what  is  dead, 
and  I  found  a  Turkish  woman  and  girl, 
not  long  dead,  with  their  eyes  picked  out. 

I  went  away  and  sent  somebody  to   bury 
them. 

"  Now  when  I  came  to  San  Felix,  I 
went  into  the  inn  there,  and  I  saw  that 
same  Turk  eating  dinner.  When  he  saw 
me  he  went  to  his  room  without  finish- 
ing. 'That  is  queer,'  I  thought,  and 
waited  for  him  to  come  out.  I  then  said 
to  the  landlord,  '  Go  tell  the  Turk  I  want 
to  see  him.'  The  Turk  told  the  posadero, 

I 1  am  sick  and  cannot  come.' 

"So  I  went  to  the  door  and  said, 
'  Open,  or  I  shoot  you  through  the  door." 
He  did  not  open,  so  I  kicked  in  the  door 
and  arrested  him.  'You  murdered  that 
woman  and  girl,'  I  said.  '  Confess,  or  I 
shoot.'  So  he  confessed. 

"  I  sent  word  to  the  Jefe  Civil  to  know 
what  to  do  with  him.  The  Turk  offered 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

much  money  and  begged  to  be  let  off. 
He  said  the  woman  was  his  wife  and 
they  had  quarrelled.  But  I  would  not ; 
word  came  to  take  him  to  Bolivar  and 
shoot  him  if  he  tried  to  escape. 

"  I  took  a  sergeant  and  two  men  and 
started  for  Bolivar.  A  mile  out  the 
sergeant  told  the  Turk  to  get  down  and 
tighten  his  saddle.  Then  he  shot  him 
through  the  head.  One  of  the  soldiers 
had  a  shovel,  so  we  buried  him  and  went 
back.  That  is  what  is  meant  by  'shoot 
him  if  he  tries  to  escape.'  They  were 
content  in  Bolivar  and  promoted  me." 
He  takes  a  gulp  of  the  warm  beer. 

The  Commandante  is  inspired  to  tell 
a  tale. 

"  One  day  when  I  was  stationed  at 
Apure,  I  was  riding  along  the  bank  in 
the  dusk,  with  the  river  below  me,  when 
I  heard  a  groan.  I  slid  off  my  mule  and 
drew  my  revolver.  On  my  hands  and 
knees  then  I  crawled  down  until  I  could 


Up  the  Orinoco 

see  the  outline  of  a  man's  outstretched 
figure.  '  Esta  Usted  bueno  ? '  ('  Are  you 
all  right  ? ')  I  called  out.  I  heard  only  a 
groan.  I  asked  again.  'Agua,  agua,'  the 
man  called  back,  '  I  die  of  thirst.'  I  came 
down  and  saw  he  had  been  shot  behind 
the  neck.  I  had  a  flask  of  white  rum, 
which  I  offered.  Then  I  went  cautiously 
to  the  river  and  got  water  in  my  sombrero. 
He  drank  it  in  great  gulps,  and  I  propped 
him  against  a  tree  and  questioned  him : 
1  Who  shot  you  ? '  '  Lorenzo,'  and  I 
wrote  it  down.  Then  he  told  how 
Lorenzo  was  jealous  of  him  and  coming 
back  from  a  dance  had  shot  him.  I 
dragged  the  wounded  man  to  the  road. 
After  a  time  a  mule-train  came  by.  We 
tied  a  blanket  between  two  poles  and  put 
him,  still  groaning,  on  to  the  stretcher 
and  took  him  10  miles  to  town.  He  died 
a  few  days  after.  Lorenzo  was  identified 
by  what  I  had  written  down  and  had  to 
go  to  prison  for  a  year." 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Far  be  it  from  Fitzgerald  to  be 
stumped  in  such  a  competition. 

"  While  I  was  Prefect  of  Police  at 
Maragoto,  in  Peru,"  he  began,  "  there 
occurred  the  murder  of  a  very  wealthy 
and  important  cattle-raiser  named  Rodri- 
guez who  had  an  estate  a  little  distance 
from  the  city.  In  every  way  we  tried  to 
find  the  murderers,  but  could  not. 

"  A  year  later  a  man  loafing  in  the 
market-place  noticed  two  foreign-looking 
men  pass.  As  they  went  by,  one  pointed 
out  half  a  dozen  blackbirds  and  remarked 
to  the  other,  '  There  are  Rodriguez's 
witnesses.'  The  second  man  laughed 
and  said,  '  Yes,  there  they  still  are.'  Now 
Rodriguez  was  so  important  a  man  that 
he  who  heard  the  two  became  suspicious, 
and  came  and  told  me  what  had  passed. 
I  said  at  once,  '  Those  are  the  murderers.' 
I  sent  and  had  them  arrested,  kept  in 
separate  cells  and  lashed,  until  they 
explained  their  words.  They  finally  con- 
156 


Up  the  Orinoco 

fessed.  They  had  robbed  Rodriguez  of 
two  thousand  dollars  and  then  had 
murdered  him.  He  had  begged  for  his 
life,  but  they  feared  he  would  tell  the 
tale,  and  so  killed  him.  Before  he  died 
a  flock  of  blackbirds  passed  over,  and  he 
lifted  his  hands,  saying  :  '  You  blackbirds 
are  witnesses  of  my  death.  See  that  I 
am  revenged.'  The  Italians  had  gone  to 
Italy  for  a  year,  had  spent  the  money, 
and  returned  to  be  discovered  by  the 
witnesses  of  Rodriguez.  I  had  them 
shot  next  day." 

"Que  maravilla!"  exclaims  the  Com- 
mandante. 

"Es  posible?"  asks  El  Capitan. 

"Yo  le  aseguro  a  Usted  que  es  la 
verdad,  palabra  de  caballero,"  says  Fitz- 
gerald without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid — 
"on  his  faith  as  a  cavalier  1" 

The  veracious  tales  carry  us  well 
through  dinner.  We  go  on  shore  and 
leave  some  soiled  clothes  with  the 

'57 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

women  washing  in  the  river.  There  are 
no  caiman  so  near  El  Capitan's  Mausers. 
From  time  to  time  the  women  halt  their 
labour  and  swim  around  in  the  shallow 
water.  They  are  the  only  people  in 
Barrancas  who,  so  far  as  is  visible  to 
the  eye,  do  a  stroke  of  work.  We 
walk  around  and  inspect  the  town.  It  is 
like  Pedernales,  a  row  of  adobe  houses, 
the  rough  beams  inside  smoke-begrimed 
and  crude  to  the  last  degree.  We  stop 
in  at  the  one  place  of  entertainment 
which  the  town  affords  and  watch  a 
pool  game  on  an  ancient  French  table. 
We  return  presently  to  the  war-vessel 
and  shoot  at  bottles  and  turkey  buzzards 
without  doing  much  harm  to  either. 

A  little  gasolene  launch  appears  up 
stream  rapidly  nearing  town.  This  is 
Fitzgerald's  friend.  "  Hey,  Mattey, 
Mattey !  "  he  shouts,  and  El  Commandante 
and  El  Capitan  cry  in  unison,  "  Mattey, 
Mattey  !  "  The  launch  comes  alongside. 
158 


Up  the  Orinoco 

Two  small  Indian  boys  about  twelve 
years  old  are  seated  at  the  front  of  the 
jfrail  cockleshell.  They  make  a  good 
[landing  and  Mattey  himself  climbs  up. 
;He  is  a  little  wizened  Corsican,  fiery  of 
temper  and  rapid  of  speech.  He  is 
[engaged  in  getting  out  timber  on  General 
JDesham's  concession.  Just  at  present  he 
is  cutting  telegraph-poles  for  the  Pre- 
tsidente's  electric-light  plant  at  Bolivar, 
i  Mattey  is  down  now  to  see  some  people 
;due  on  the  "  Delta,"  which  arrives  the 
day  after  to-morrow  from  Trinidad. 
("  Bien  stire "  he  can  and  will  supply  us 
lavith  enough  gasolene  to  go  to  San  Felix, 
[perhaps  enough  to  get  us  to  Bolivar. 

Being  relieved  on  this  score,  we  con- 
sider dinner.  What  is  our  horror  to  find 
Ithat  while  drinks,  Worcester  sauce,  pepper, 
I  baking-powder  and  vinegar  abound,  there 
are  no  tinned  meats  or  fish  or  beans  left. 
Somebody  with  an  enormous  appetite  has 
been  stealing.  It  does  not  take  long  to 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

light  on  Joe,  who  had  charge  of  the 
keys  to  the  lockers  and  lost  them  so  that 
nothing  could  be  locked  up. 

A  council  of  war  is  held. 

"  Shoot  him,"  says  El  Commandante. 
"  Nobody  will  mind,"  adds  El  Capitan. 
"  Throw  him  overboard,"  says  Mattey. 
Fitzgerald  is  for  "  marooning."  "  Send 
him  back  to  Trinidad  by  the  '  Delta,' ' 
you  suggest.  Pending  a  decision,  a 
motion  to  whale  him  is  unanimously 
carried  and  executed.  We  go  ashore  and 
buy  provisions  of  enormous  price  and 
dubious  pedigree. 

Next    morning,   while   waiting    for    the 
"  Delta,"    Mattey  suggests   that   we   drop 
down  and  call  on  the  Germans   who   are. 
putting    up    a    meat-extract    factory    jusfcj 
beyond  Barrancas.     We   take   the   launch 
to    their    landing   and    find   a   big   blond 
German  with  a   gang  of  men  fishing  out 
a  dump  car  that  has  fallen  into  the  river. 
We  follow  the  track  a  short  distance  in- 
160 


Up  the  Orinoco 

land.  Concrete  buildings  are  in  course  of 
construction.  Beyond  them  is  a  very 
cosy  wooden  house,  of  the  most  welcome 
contrast  to  the  crazy  shacks  of  Barrancas 
^and  Pedernales. 

A  remarkably  good-looking  German 
hausfrau  appears  for  a  moment,  and  a 
bare-legged  blond  boy  comes  around  the 
corner  of  the  porch,  looking  like  a 
youngster  fresh  from  the  beach  of  Sche- 
veningen.  Mr.  Max  Dude,  the  manager, 
hurries  out  and  gathers  us  in.  We  are 
invited  to  the  forthcoming  meal — breakfast 
or  lunch,  whichever  one  chooses  to  call  it. 

The  Dude  family  has  come  from  some 
place  near  the  border-line  between  Brazil 
and  Bolivia — a  place  that  nobody  ever 
heard  of. 

"It  took  five  changes  of  steamers  to 
get  back  to  Hamburg,"  says  Frau  Dude 
plaintively,  "  but  I  got  first  prize  for  my 
hat  with  the  aigrette  plumes  when  I  did 
get  home." 

M  161 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

The  meal  is  "  echt  Deutsch,"  and  finely 
cooked.  Frau  Dude  explains  that  she 
holds  the  whip  over  the  cook  personally 
or  nothing  would  ever  be  right. 

Herr  Dude  is  banking  on  the  Mal- 
thusian  law.  "  Where  is  the  world  to  get 
meat  in  the  next  fifty  years  ?  The  United 
States  is  raising  barely  enough  for  its 
own  use.  Argentina  and  Australia 
supply  England  now.  Prices  are  always 
rising,  and  there  is  never  enough.  Vene- 
zuela is  the  only  great  cattle  area  left, 
and  it  is  almost  untouched.  We  have 
moved  up  here  and  settled  where  ocean 
steamers  can  come  and  tap  Venezuela. 
We  can't  ship  much  beef  yet,  but  we 
begin  and  get  the  start  for  the  future. 
After  a  while  we  will  have  here  places 
like  Armours',  and  these  will  be  German/ 

The  "  Delta  "  is  due  at  four  o'clock,  and 

it  stays  for  only  an  hour.     We  watch  the 

clock  anxiously.     Herr  Dude  disdains  the 

"  Delta";     he    bets    Mattey    a    bottle  of 

162 


Up  the  Orinoco 

champagne  she  won't  be  in  that  night. 
But  about  six  she  appears.  We  make 
an  engagement  for  dinner  at  seven  to 
pay  bets,  and  hurry  for  our  launch. 

Hon.  Robert  Henderson,  United  States 
Consul  at  Ciudad  Bolivar,  Henry  Wads- 
worth,  a  young  American  engineer  coming 
down  to  put  in  the  Presidente's  electric 
plant,  and  an  assortment  of  Venezuelan 
beauties  are  on  board.  Fitzgerald  lines 
the  officers  up  at  the  bar  to  see  if  he  can 
jolly  them  into  breaking  the  law  and 
putting  off  some  of  his  own  gasolene 
which  is  on  board.  It  does  not  work  this 
time,  so  we  have  to  fall  back  on  Mattey. 

Later  we  go  up  with  the  timber-cutter 
to  his  bachelor  quarters  in  Barrancas. 
The  house  has  the  same  tumble-down 
appearance  as  the  rest.  The  rear  half  is 
in  ruins.  Mattey  lives  in  the  first  two 
rooms,  which  are  furnished  with  a  table, 
a  hammock,  and  a  barrel  of  gasolene.  We 
load  some  of  our  empty  cans,  take  a  cup 

163 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

of  very  good  coffee,  and  then  start  back 
to  the  German's. 

It  is  a  wild  night  at  Dude's.  We  are 
the  only  even  partly-civilized  people  whom 
they  have  seen  for  months.  Frau  Dude 
is  charming,  Fitzgerald  entertaining  as 
ever,  and  Mattey  shows  real  Gallic  salt 
and  surprising  erudition.  A  remark  of 
his,  characterizing  work  in  Venezuela  as 
"  a  filling  of  the  jars  of  the  Danaides," 
comes  startlingly  in  our  environment. 

When  the  "  Delta "  bet  has  been  paid 
two  or  three  times  over,  Fitzgerald  pro- 
pounds to  the  unsuspecting  Teuton  the 
addition  to  his  gang  of  labourers  of  one 
able-bodied  wharf-rat  named  Joe,  strong, 
courageous,  accustomed  to  turning  heavy 
flywheels. 

"  Gewiss,  gewiss  !  "  assents  Herr  Dude 
willingly,  for  labour  is  hard  to  get  up 
here. 

This  seems  hardly  fair  to  the  host,  so 
you  intimate,  as  tactfully  as  possible,  lest 
164 


Up  the  Orinoco 

he  back  out  of  the  bargain,  that  the  afore- 
said Joe,  while  possessing  many  virtues, 
is  not  likely  to  achieve  nervous  breakdown 
by  reason  of  too  great  industry  and  has 
a  remarkable  appetite  for  rum  and  canned 
goods  left  unlocked. 

"  Der  Schweinhund  1 "  says  Herr  Dude. 
"  Never  mind,  he  can't  steal  my  donkey- 
engine.  The  cook  will  give  him  plenty 
bananas  and  cassava.  I  take  him." 

Fairly  late  the  party  breaks  up.  Joe 
is  left  like  Dido  on  the  bank.  The  cap- 
tain is  able  to  navigate  the  "Geraldo"  to 
Mattey's  lumber-camp,  a  mile  up  stream 
on  the  right  bank. 

The  camp-fires  are  burning  when  we 
arrive,  but  not  a  soul  is  to  be  seen.  "'The 
Indians  don't  know  the  launch,"  Mattey 
says,  laughing ;  "  they  think  we  are  a 
commission."  This  seems  rather  an  ex- 
treme view  to  take  regarding  government 
by  commission,  but  Mattey  explains  : 
*  Taxes  have  been  imposed  upon  the 

165 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Indians  which  they  can't  pay.  Then 
commissions  come  and  seize  them  to 
work  off  the  taxes.  So  the  men  take  to 
the  woods  when  an  official  appears." 

Mattey  shouts  lustily  into  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  calling  certain  names. 

The  camp  consists  of  a  dozen  shelters 
of  palm  thatch,  each  built  between  two 
trees  and  having  a  hammock  stretched 
underneath.  Fires  are  alight  in  three 
or  four  places  to  drive  away  the  mos- 
quitoes. The  head  of  a  huge  fish  is 
roasting  on  a  framework  of  saplings. 
We  sample  a  piece  of  it,  and  also  the 
red  berries  lying  in  a  gourd  on  the 
ground. 

Some  sharp  eyes  eventually  recognize 
Mattey  and  the  Indians  hear  his  shouts 
and  come  back — a  half-dozen  men  and 
as  many  women  and  children.  Some  of 
them  wear  clothes.  They  go  tranquilly 
to  their  fires  and  presently  to  their  little 
hammocks.  By  and  by  Mattey  climbs 
1 66 


Up  the  Orinoco 

into  his,  after  pulling  down  the  mosquito 
bar,  and  we  go  back  to  the.  boat. 

Charlie  has  fixed  up  our  mosquito  net. 
But  here  you,  taking  as  a  proven  premise 
that  the  net  is  no  good  for  keeping  out 
mosquitoes,  try  a  new  method  for  beat- 
ing them.  No  one  ever  heard  of  a  turtle 
being  troubled  by  mosquitoes  ;  obviously 
you  must  adopt  his  system.  Now  the 
inflated  mattress  that  so  nearly  saw 
service  as  a  life-preserver  is  covered  with 
a  case  of  heavy  canvas.  Taking  out  the 
rubber  air-mattress  there  is  left  a  canvas 
bag  7  feet  long,  and  just  wide  enough  to 
wriggle  into.  You  crawl  inside  this  and 
cover  all  your  head  except  your  nose 
with  a  bath  towel. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  stand  it,"  says 
Fitzgerald,  getting  under  his  mosquito  net. 

"A  Turkish  bath  is  better  to  sleep  in 
than  a  menagerie,"  you  retort  from  the 
depths  of  the  bath  towel. 

It  works  like  a  charm.  Breathing  is 

167 


Up  the  Orinoco 

observed  in  New  York  under  a  Tammany 
administration. 

Back  in  the  camp,  one  of  Mattey's 
Guaranos  skins  our  monkey.  This  and 
the  dove  we  eat.  The  Indians  make 
away  with  the  hawk  and  the  crane. 

Charlie  develops  unsuspected  senti- 
mentality about  sampling  the  monkey. 
"  I  eat  him  if  you  do,  sir,"  he  finally 
says  plaintively.  The  monkey  is  not 
very  large  and  we  consume  most  of  it, 
Charlie  disposing  of  his  full  share  once 
he  has  started.  Except  for  being  a  little 
tough  the  flesh  is  very  good. 

In  the  afternoon  we  take  a  dugout 
coriara  and  paddle  up  a  little  river  which 
is  only  30  feet  wide  where  it  joins  the 
Orinoco,  but  which  widens  beyond  to 
200  feet.  There  should  have  been  croco- 
diles here  in  numbers,  but  they  were 
cleaned  out,  we  learn,  at  the  rate  of 
two  hundred  a  night  by  some  Swedish 
pot-hunters  a  while  ago. 

169 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

We  shoot  four  divers,  but  can  recover 
only  one.  They  disappear  permanently 
when  wounded,  apparently  clinging  to  the 
bottom. 

Some  distance  up  this  river  we  strike 
inland  towards  the  savanna.  For  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  we  go  through  woods 
without  underbrush.  Then  there  is  a 
treeless  place  with  sabre-grass  as  high 
as  the  head.  A  dense  hot  moist  jungle 
follows,  impassable  save  by  the  trail  we 
are  following.  Then  comes  a  half-mile 
stretch  of  grass,  waist-high.  Another 
group  of  chapparal-trees  appears,  looking 
like  a  gnarled  orchard,  the  trunks  spaced 
40  feet  to  60  feet  apart  as  if  artificially 
done.  Finally  comes  the  savanna,  or 
plains  of  coarse  grass  6  inches  to  12 
inches  high.  A  few  isolated  thickets 
show  up  here ;  the  mountains  are  in  the 
distance.  A  herd  of  wild  cattle  is 
browsing  on  a  distant  stretch  of  llanos, 
but  the  binoculars  show  no  game  in  sight. 
170 


Up  the  Orinoco 

The  sun  is  blistering,  so  we  get  back  to 
the  coriara,  paddle  down  to  the  launch, 
and  start  up  the  Orinoco  once  more. 

We  pass  the  battlemented  heights  of 
Los  Castillos,  where  young  Raleigh  fell 
in  the  assault  of  San  Thom6,  and  arrive 
next  day  late  at  San  Felix.  This  is  the 
most  pretentious  place  yet.  The  town 
stands  on  the  top  of  a  high  bank,  where 
a  column  of  mottled  stone  commemorates 
some  forgotten  general.  A  herd  of  fine- 
looking  beeves  is  grazing  on  the  slope. 
Burros  loaded  with  balata,  just  in  from 
the  rubber  forests,  stand  waiting  to  be 
relieved  of  their  burdens.  A  four-mule 
prairie  schooner  jingles  past  on  the  road 
to  the  Callao  mining  district,  100  miles 
away. 

After  the  usual  proceedings  with  the 
Commandante  we  go  up  to  the  Hotel 
Colon.  This  is  kept  by  a  Corsican,  immi- 
grated only  four  months  ago.  Pictures 
of  Napoleon  deck  his  walls.  A  slovenly 

171 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

wife,  a  good-looking,  but  equally  slovenly 
belle-s&ur,  and  a  stark-naked  baby  com- 
plete his  family. 

A  travelling  theatrical  troupe  is  stopping 
with  them.  It  consists  of  M.  de  los 
Rios,  Prestidigitateur  and  master  of 
"  Oriental  Blak  Arts,''  and  Miss  Judhit, 
singer  and  puppet-manipulator.  The  Pro- 
fessor is  clean-shaven  and  very  thin. 
He  wears  a  skin-tight  brown  pepper-and- 
salt  suit.  Miss  Judhit  is  tall,  gaunt,  and 
angular,  and  has  dark  eyes.  She  wears 
a  red  gauze  waist,  and  keeps  a  tame 
parakeet  on  the  tree  in  the  courtyard. 
An  English  engineer  of  doleful  aspect 
down  from  the  mines  is  on  hand.  He 
smokes  a  pipe  constantly  and  never  says 
a  word  to  anybody.  An  elderly  local 
financial  light  with  a  prejudice  against 
shaving,  a  bearded  Corsican  merchant  from 
Callao,  and  a  young  Spanish-German, 
son  of  a  big  merchant  in  Bolivar,  com- 
plete the  quota  of  guests. 
172 


Up  the  Orinoco 

We  get  a  rather  good  dinner  at 
the  Hotel  Colon.  Fitzgerald  considers  it 
due  to  Lord  Byron  to  make  violent  love 
to  Miss  Judhit,  which  does  not  in  the 
least  trouble  Professor  de  los  Rios.  They 
are  to  give  a  performance  to-night — that 
is,  probably.  The  Professor  fears  that 
everybody  will  be  down  on  the  river- 
bank  to  watch  the  "  Delta,"  now  due  from 
Ciudad  Bolivar. 

We  encourage  him  and  offer  helpful 
suggestions.  A  procession  through  the 
town  in  costume  would  be  the  proper 
thing. 

"Only  the  priest  is  allowed  to  have 
processions !  "  the  Professor  says  listlessly. 

"  The  priest  can't  have  them  here,"  cuts 
in  the  Corsican  merchant.  "  They  threw 
the  last  padre  into  the  river." 

"  But  that  does  not  help  me,"  protests 
the  Professor. 

"Hire  men  to  go  down  to  the  bank 
and,  as  soon  as  the  '  Delta '  leaves,  shout 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

out,  *  Let  us  go  to  the  performance  of  Pro- 
fessor de  los  Rios,'  "  suggests  Fitzgerald. 

He  shakes  his  head  dolefully.  "  But 
we  can  let  off  fireworks,'  he  adds,  as  if 
on  an  inspiration. 

When  nine  o'clock  comes,  the  perfor- 
mance being  billed,  "  a  las  8  y  media  en 
punto  "  sharp,  we  help  set  off  fire-crackers 
and  sky-rockets  in  the  hotel  courtyard. 
Nobody  bothers  about  the  sparks  which 
fly  down  onto  the  thatched  roofs  of  the 
town. 

In  the  next  hour  or  so,  some  fifty 
people,  a  good  half  of  them  children, 
slouch  in,  bringing  their  own  chairs. 
We,  who  rank  as  Charter  Members  and 
Patrons  of  the  Arts,  pre-empt  rocking- 
chairs  in  the  front  row.  The  orchestra 
takes  its  place  on  a  bench  near  the 
curtain. 

The  orchestra  consists  of  a  leader,  Big 
Guitar,  a  Trinidad  mulatto  in  grey  over- 
alls and  undershirt ;  Big  Mandolin,  a 


Up  the  Orinoco 

Zambo  or  Negro-Indian  combination,  in 
yellow  linen  with  needle-shaped  yellow 
shoes ;  Little  Guitar,  a  mestizo,  or 
Spanish-Indian  half-breed,  in  blue  over- 
alls with  a  red  bandana  neckcloth  ;  Man- 
dolin, a  full-blooded  Indian  with  a  sailor 
cap  and  brown  trousers.  The  police 
force,  in  a  dusky  undershirt,  beats  back 
the  children  with  the  flat  of  his  sabre. 
The  overture  is  a  local  danza  air. 

Professor  de  los  Rios  finally  appears 
in  blue  dress-coat  and  knee  trousers  and 
the  performance  begins.  He  borrows  a 
handkerchief  from  a  lady,  and  while  a 
thrill  of  expectation  surges  through  the 
crowd,  he  cuts  a  hole  in  it.  One  peon 
wants  to  be  shown  if  this  handkerchief  is 
the  original.  The  Professor  angrily  pro- 
tests and  aims  a  pistol  at  the  interloper, 
who  cows  down  behind  the  man  in  front. 
The  people  on  the  line  of  fire  edge  to  one 
side.  There  is  a  gasp  of  horror  and 
everybody  ducks  as  the  Professor  fires. 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

But  it  is  all  part  of  the  show.  The  hand- 
kerchief descends  intact  in  a  little  para- 
chute from  the  ceiling.  Immense  relief 
and  thunderous  applause  from  the  rather 
nervous  audience.  Bows  from  the  Pro- 
fessor and  music  by  the  orchestra. 

A  long  entr'acte  follows,  during  which 
the  row  of  piccaninnies  look  with  open 
mouth  at  the  ceiling  whence  the  parachute 
fell.  The  Professor  is  not  crowding 
attractions.  He  opens  the  curtain  a  little 
and  beckons  to  Fitzgerald,  who  goes  in 
behind  the  scenes.  The  captain  is  soon 
back  grinning.  "  The  Professor  says 
there  have  been  paid  only  two  pesos. 
These  people  have  sneaked  in  from  be- 
hind." 

Fitzgerald  makes  himself  a  collecting 
agent,  and  by  the  help  of  a  dollar  of  yours 
gets  the  pot  up  to  five  pesos.  The  land- 
lord with  an  improvised  bar  is  doing  a 
thriving  trade,  meanwhile. 

Miss  Judhit  comes  on  now  to  sing  a 
176 


Up  the  Orinoco 

song.  Big  Guitar  is  to  accompany  her. 
After  jockeying  for  a  start  they  get  away, 
but  something  goes  wrong.  The  impas- 
sioned ditty  dies  down  and  Miss  Judhit 
glares  wickedly  at  Big  Guitar.  You  can 
imagine  the  Duchess  of  "  Alice  in  Wonder- 
land" ordering  "  Off  with  his  head!" 
They  try  again.  Poor  Big  Guitar  is 
flustered  by  his  previous  failure  and 
wilts  beneath  the  acid  frown  of  the 
senorita.  The  air  trails  off  in  doleful 
discords.  Miss  Judhit  stamps  her  foot, 
mutters  a  "Caramba!"  and  flees  from 
the  stage. 

The  Professor  nervously  comes  for- 
ward and  explains  that  the  accompanist 
is  inexperienced,  but  that  he  himself  will 
do  the  wonderful  lost-coin  trick.  Miss 
Judhit  holds  the  glass,  glaring  now  and 
again  at  the  unlucky  Big  Guitar,  between 
her  professional  smiles  at  the  audience. 
The  coin  is  of  course  miraculously  found 
in  a  negro  boy's  ear,  much  to  his  sur- 

N  I77 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

prise  and  that  of  his  friends.  With  this 
the  show  ends.  After  due  felicitations  to 
the  troupe  we  stumble  sleepily  back  to  the 
river,  and  out  to  bed,  via  a  plank  and 
a  schooner  to  which  we  have  tied. 

We  inspect  next  day  the  falls  of  the 
Caroni,  set  in  the  tropic  forest,  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  sights  possible — "  that 
wonderful  breach  of  waters,"  Raleigh 
described  it.  We  take  the  Comman- 
dante  and  his  guitar  along  and  the 
Spanish-German  youth. 

On  the  way  we  break  a  mirror,  and 
return  to  find  that  our  gasolene  will  not 
take  us  to  Bolivar  and  that  the  reserve 
supply  expected  on  the  returning  "  Delta" 
has  not  come.  A  telegram  says  it  is  on 
the  way  in  a  sailing  vessel.  Five  days' 
dead  loss,  waiting  at  San  Felix,  is  the 
significance  of  this. 

It  cannot  be  borne.  Several  sailing- 
vessels  are  at  anchor  before  the  town. 
You  send  word  to  the  captain  of  each 
178 


Up  the  Orinoco 

that  any  one  will  receive  the  large  sum 
of  five  pesos  who  will  sail  at  once  and 
take  you  to  Bolivar.  Only  one  captain 
is  willing  to  negotiate — he  is  sailing  next 
day  anyway. 

This  officer  sends  back  word  that  he 
will  consider  the  offer,  which  is  not  very 
promising,  so  we  all  go  ashore  for  lunch. 
Just  as  the  meal  is  about  to  begin 
Charlie  comes  up  panting.  "  The  captain 
sail-boat  say  he  go  Bolivar  now."  You 
take  precipitate  leave  of  Fitzgerald,  and 
start  for  the  river. 

"  I'll  meet  you  at  Mannoni's  Hotel," 
he  calls. 

You  jump  into  the  coriara  which 
serves  as  tender,  hurriedly  load  in  two  tins 
of  sardines,  a  piece  of  cheese  and  a  can 
of  corn,  and  climb  aboard  the  "  Hijo  de 
Dios." 

The  boat  is  a  sloop,  rigged  with  an 
auxiliary  lateen  sail  which  is  used  as  a 
spinnaker  in  running  before  the  wind. 

179 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

A  microscopic  cabin  like  a  well  lies  just 
forward  of  the  tiller.  One  coriara  is 
towed  astern,  another  smaller  dugout  is 
lying  on  the  deck,  which  is  covered  with 
a  mess  of  disordered  ropes  and  blocks. 
The  red,  blue,  and  yellow  flag  of  Vene- 
zuela with  its  seven  stars  floats  at  the  peak. 

The  captain  is  a  thin,  hawk-nosed 
mestizo  in  an  undershirt  and  once  white 
trousers.  The  first  officer  is  a  tough- 
looking  indeterminate  who  stands  by  the 
helm.  A  villainous  set  of  three  deckers, 
including  the  dirtiest  cocinero  that  ever 
maltreated  victuals,  complete  the  crew. 

The  other  passengers  are  four  Indian 
girls,  all  smoking  cigars,  three  naked 
children  and  one  Zambo  peon.  The  girls' 
baggage  consists  of  a  bunch  of  bananas, 
some  pieces  of  cactus,  a  parrot  tied  by 
one  leg,  and  a  puppy. 

The  vessel  gets  under  way  with  a  good 
trade  wind  behind  at  about  half  past  one 
on  Sunday.  The  captain  gives  you,  to  sit 
1 80 


Up  the  Orinoco 

upon,  a  heap  of  tarpaulin  against  the 
mast,  in  the  shade  of  the  sail.  The 
cocinero  lights  a  fire  of  faggots  in  a  big 
wooden  box  with  sand  in  its  bottom, 
and  brews  coffee,  which  is  passed  around. 
The  ladies  puff  at  their  cigars.  One  of 
the  children,  apparently  not  over  three 
years  old,  picks  up  his  mother's  stub  and 
sucks  at  it. 

We  read  and  smoke  and  look  stupidly 
at  the  landscape,  and  wriggle  uncomfort- 
ably all  through  the  long  afternoon.  The 
cook  makes  up  a  dinner  consisting  of 
coffee,  boiled  rice,  cassava  bread,  and  the 
stringiest  and  toughest  beef  this  side  of 
leather. 

Presently  the  passengers  compose  them- 
selves to  sleep.  The  Indians  lie  wedged 
like  sardines  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin. 
You  are  just  behind  the  mast ;  the  puppy 
comes  and  curls  up  beside  you. 

All  through  the  early  part  of  the  night 
the  captain,  the  mate,  and  the  Zambo 

181 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

peon  argue  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 
Occasionally  they  shriek  in  falsetto.  The 
discussion  seems  to  be  about  an  infini- 
tesimal sum  of  money.  You  doze  fit- 
fully through  it,  while  with  a  strong 
wind  behind  the  boat  is  ploughing  its 
way  up  stream. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  chorus  of  cries, 
stamping  of  feet  and  rattling  of  ropes. 
The  boom  swings  over  in  a  jibe.  The 
throat  halyards  of  the  lateen  sail  part, 
and  it  comes  down  with  a  bang,  knock- 
ing one  of  the  crew  into  the  river.  The 
night  is  pitch  dark ;  confusion  of  the  pit 
reigns.  After  you  have  been  walked 
over,  the  dog  stepped  on,  and  everything 
bedevilled  generally,  things  are  fixed  up 
and  we  go  on  again,  the  castaway  climb- 
ing back  complacently. 

With     malicious    frequency     now     the 

boom   swings    across,  and  you   find   your 

head  in  the  scuppers,  your  feet  high   up 

to  windward,  and  have  to   crawl   around. 

182 


Up  the  Orinoco 

About  one  in  the  morning  the  night  is 
so  dark  that  the  mate  does  not  dare  sail 
any  more  for  fear  of  the  rocks,  and  he 
drops  anchor.  The  negro  passenger  comes 
and  sleeps  beside  you,  the  captain  climbs 
into  the  dugout  on  deck,  the  mate  curls 
up  by  his  tiller. 

Before  daybreak  you  awake,  stiff  from 
the  hard  deck.  The  parrot  is  screeching 
and  there  is  a  flat  calm.  The  cook 
makes  more  coffee  and  passes  it  around. 
In  a  couple  of  hours  a  little  puffy  breeze 
arises.  We  lift  anchor  and  crawl  slowly 
up  the  river. 

Until  about  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon this  weather  continues  and  we  ad- 
vance at  a  snail's  pace.  The  sun  is  like 
the  opening  of  a  furnace,  beating  down 
from  above.  The  only  shade  is  forward 
of  the  mast,  where  there  is  no  room  to  sit 
and  where  the  filth  of  the  cook-stove 
and  its  smell  are  worse  almost  than  the 
torrid  sun,  which  continues  to  glare  down 

183 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

on  us  savagely  all  through  the  day. 
The  captain  has  an  old  umbrella,  under 
which  he  reads  a  Spanish  edition  of 
Dumas'  "  Deux  Diane."  The  Indians  and 
the  crew  are  used  to  the  climate  and 
roast  stoically. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  quite 
unheralded,  a  swirl  of  dust  appears  on  a 
sandbank  of  the  left  shore  a  mile  away. 
"  Chubasco ! "  cries  the  mate  excitedly, 
pointing  to  it.  " Chubasco"!  One  of  the 
dangerous  storms  peculiar  to  the  Orinoco 
is  upon  us.  The  captain  shouts  an  order 
and  the  crew  jump  to  their  feet  and 
lower  everything  but  the  jib.  Save  for 
that  dust-whirl  in  the  distance  nothing 
stirs,  and  the  water  is  like  glass.  Then 
all  in  a  moment  comes  a  rush  of  wind. 
The  lightning  flashes,  dark  clouds  appear 
from  nowhere  and  pour  down  a  deluge 
of  rain.  The  passengers  get  under  tar- 
paulins and  cower ;  the  sailors  take  it  as 
it  comes  and  are  drenched  in  a  moment. 
184 


Up  the  Orinoco 

In  half  an  hour  the  storm  has  died 
down.  You  crawl  out.  Sail  is  hoisted, 
and  with  only  another  parted  halyard 
we  reach  the  spot  where  the  negro  peon 
is  to  land.  His  coriara,  which  was  towed 
astern,  is  brought  alongside  and  loaded 
with  bananas  and  sugar-cane  from  the 
hold.  With  praiseworthy  dexterity  the 
crew  steal  several  bananas  and  pieces  of 
cane  as  they  pass  these  down.  The 
passenger  counts  out  some  money  to  the 
captain  and  pushes  off. 

Night  comes  on  again,  but  afar  off 
we  see  the  lights  of  Bolivar.  There  is 
almost  no  wind.  A  slight  drizzle  of 
rain  is  falling.  We  go  up  a  dangerous 
channel  with  rocks  like  a  manatee's  back, 
close  alongside.  At  last  we  cast  anchor 
before  the  town.  It  is  half  past  one :  we 
have  been  thirty-six  hours  out  from  San 
Felix. 

You  feel  that  you  could  stand  anything 
save  staying  on  the  "Hijo  de  Dios"  another 

185 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

night.  Luggage  cannot  be  landed,  because 
it  must  pass  the  custom-house.  But 
you,  in  bedraggled  khaki,  can  land  if 
fancy  moves.  The  dugout  takes  you  to 
a  bank  so  steep  that  you  have  to  use 
hands  and  knees  to  scramble  up.  Covered 
with  sand  and  dirt,  which  stick  to  your 
wet  clothes,  you  reach  the  parapet  and 
start  to  find  a  hotel.  The  street  lamps 
are  burning,  but  not  a  soul  is  in  sight. 
A  little  way  down  you  meet  a  drunken 
sailor.  He  can  hardly  navigate,  much 
less  talk.  Farther  on  is  a  boyish  sentry 
with  a  long  Mauser  musket ;  he  politely 
leaves  his  post  and  guides  you  to  the 
"Gran"  Hotel. 

You  push  in  through  the  door  and  try 
to  wake  a  negro  boy  asleep  in  a  hammock. 
No  idea  whatever  can  penetrate  his  head. 
He  falls  into  a  doze  as  he  stands.  At 
length  a  mulatto  woman  with  a  candle 
appears.  "  No  rooms  —  go  away  —  no 
rooms  !  "  she  says  hospitably.  Arguments 
1 86 


Up  the  Orinoco 

avail  nothing.  Besides,  the  stone  floor 
is  as  little  inviting  as  the  "  Hijo  de 
Dios"  deck. 

Out  into  the  cold  world  you  go  again 
and  stumble  into  the  market  and  the 
Barracks.  An  old  woman  turns  to  the 
south.  "  Hotel  Espana  esa  I"  she  says, 
pointing.  You  stalk  over,  find  it  finally, 
and  wake  a  mestizo  in  another  hammock. 
In  this  establishment  they  are  used  to 
parties  arriving  late  and  in  a  battered 
state.  The  mestizo  leads  you  upstairs 
and  you  thread  your  way  between  other 
hammocks  to  where  he  opens  the  door 
of  a  bare,  brick-floored  room  with  a 
chair  and  a  cot  constructed  of  sailcloth 
stretched  upon  a  frame.  It  has  the  sem- 
blance of  a  bed.  Feeling  like  Ulysses 
cast  on  Calypso's  Isle,  without  any 
Calypso,  you  drop  on  to  the  cot  and 
fall  into  a  dead  sleep. 


187 


V 

THE   CITY   OF    BOLIVAR 

A  T  six  o'clock  you  wake,  make  such 
^  *•  a  toilet  as  is  possible  under  the 
circumstances,  and  breakfast  at  the  hotel. 
As  you  have  a  letter  to  the  Administrator;! 
de  Aduana,  General  Navarro,  it  seems 
best  to  present  it  before  trying  to  bring 
your  armament  ashore. 

General  Navarro  is  the  soul  of  courtesy 
"  Expect  a  while,"  he  says.  "  We  hean 
from  Trinidad    that    you   were   coming ! 
You     "  expect"     a    while,    chatting     an 
smoking  his  cigarettes.     Presently  you  an 
agreeably  surprised    to   be  told  that  you 
belongings    are  below,    ready  to   be  take 
away.     He   has    sent    a  man   to  get  you 
goods,     and    has    passed    them    throug 
188 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

without  a  look  or  charge.  A  peon  whom 
he  designates  as  your  porter  is  directed 
to  take  your  luggage  to  the  Hotel  Cyrnos, 
kept  by  Mannoni,  late  of  Corsica,  and 
thither  you  duly  follow. 

The  city  of  Bolivar  looks  far  less  weird 
in  the  daylight  than  it  did  in  the  night. 
A  tree-shaded  walk  along  the  bank  where 
the  band  plays  in  the  afternoon  stretches 
in  front  of  the  Calle  de  Orinoco,  the 
,  main  business  street. 

The     river    sweeps    by    below    with    a 

:  rapid    current,    for    the    shores    converge 

sharply  here,  giving   the   town  its  former 

.!name  of  "  Angostura" — the   Narrows.     A 

big   rounded   rock   breasts  the   current  in 

mid-stream. 

The  business  houses  are  solidly  built, 
many  with  lofty  galleries  projecting  over 
the  sidewalk.  The  American  flour  im- 
"  porters,  Dalton  &  Co.,  who  have  a 
monopoly  of  this  business,  face  the 
steamer  landing  with  their  big  arched 

189 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

Farther  along  is  the  office  and  house  of 
;he  President  of  the  State  of  Bolivar — 
\ristides  Telleria — for  whom  the  tele- 
jraph-poles  are  being  cut  by  your 
riend  Mattey.  A  crowd  is  outside  his 
loor  talking  with  his  private  sentry  and 
vaiting  for  an  audience. 

Beyond  this  a  narrow  street  with  a 
lowing  gutter  down  its  middle  leads  up 
he  steep  hill.  We  begin,  over  the 
mmpy  cobble-stones,  a  laborious  climb. 
)n  each  side  are  solid  square  houses, 
ne  or  two  stories  high,  with  barred 
/indows  and  a  wide  doorway.  Absolutely 
nlike  Trinidad,  with  its  wooden  build- 
igs  embowered  in  palms  and  flowers 
re  these  white,  yellow,  and  slate-coloured 
ouses  in  solid  blocks  one  against  the 
<ther,  barred  and  shuttered  like  prisons. 

At  intervals  you  get  a  glimpse  through 
;  doorway  and  see  the  central  courtyard 
nth  a  fountain  playing  or  a  burro 
sanding  ready  saddled  beneath  the  arch- 

191 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

way.  At  the  window  of  one  house,  iron- 
barred,  provided  with  neither  glass  nor 
curtains,  a  girl  is  sewing.  These  Bolivar 
buildings  are  like  the  villas  uncovered  at 
Pompeii,  of  frowning  exteriors  and  smiling 
courts,  into  whose  brightness  the  living- 
rooms  open  through  big  doorways. 

At  length  Mannoni's  Hotel  is  reached. 
The  brother  of  the  proprietor,  who  has 
recently  finished  his  time  in  the  French 
Army,  and  threatens  to  go  back  because, 
he  says,  "  There  are  not  enough  pretty 
girls  in  Bolivar,"  leads  the  way  to  a  per- 
fectly clean  room  looking  out  on  an  airy 
palm-planted  courtyard.  Three  shower- 
baths  are  just  around  the  corner. 

You  are  just  in  time  for  the  half-past 
eleven  meal.  There  are  two  main  tables 
at  Mannoni's  in  the  breeze-swept  room 
between  the  courtyards.  One,  serious, 
quiet,  heavy,  is  the  Anglo-Saxon  table, 
where  they  put  German  drummers  and 
stray  English  travellers.  The  other  is  the 
192 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

Latin  table,  where  Corsicans  and  Spanish 
flourish,  where  M.  Mannoni  himself  sits 
and  where  another  M.  Mattey  lays  down 
the  law  amid  difficulties.  This  table  is 
in  a  constant  state  of  effervescence, 
of  explosions,  of  vivid  words  and  far- 
flung  gestures.  By  virtue  of  your  letter 
to  S.  Jos£  Aquatella,  you  are  seated 
here. 

As  you  enter  a  great  discussion  is  on. 
Mannoni  has  just  exhibited  an  ancient 
revolver,  with  the  proud  statement  that 
his  great-grandfather  carried  it  in  Paoli's 
fight  against  the  Genoese. 

"  Mais,  c'est  impossible/'  M.  Mattey  is 
affirming.  "  Revolvers  were  not  invented 
until  fifty  years  ago." 

Mr.  Robert  Henderson,  the  veteran 
United  States  Consul,  from  a  small  table 
3f  his  own  midway  between  Saxon  and 
Latin,  stands  by  M.  Mattey.  "We  did 
lot  have  cartridges  such  as  would  go 
nto  that  revolver  until  the  Civil  War. 
o  193 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Only  men  with  good  teeth  were  enlisted 
because  they  had  to  bite  off  the  cartridges." 

Here  a  Corsican  from  San  Felix  breaks 
in  with  the  statement :  "  I  know  Man- 
noni's  family  in  Corsica,  and  all  the 
men  were  hunters  and  soldiers.  So  the 
revolver  must  have  come  from  his  great- 
grandfather." 

"The  Germans  had  the  first  cartridges 
with  their  needle-guns  ;  that  is  why  they 
beat  us  in  1870,"  says  M.  Mattey. 

The  argument  is  still  going  on  in 
detached  fragments  when  the  divers 
merchants  leave  the  table  to  go  down  to 
their  business. 

An  envoy  from  General  Navarro,  a 
little,  weazened  Venezuelan  official,  ar- 
rives somewhat  later  in  the  afternoon. 

"  The  Presidente  invites  you  to  his 
house  at  four  o'clock,  and  I,  who  manage 
various  languages,  will  meet  you  at  the 
hotel  and  accompany  you."  This  is 
the  purport  of  his  message.  You  are 
194 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

tempted  to  suggest  "  mangle "  for 
manage,  but  refrain. 

In  the  interim  you  visit  the  Consulate 
of  the  United  States.  Mr.  Robert 
Henderson  supplies  you  with  American 
papers  only  a  month  or  so  old  and 
some  grafted  mangoes,  grown  on  his 
brother's  estate,  which  taste  like  peaches. 

Just  outside  the  Consulate  windows, 
in  the  hot  sunlight  of  the  river-bank, 
Wadsworth,  the  American  electrical 
engineer,  who  came  up  on  the  "  Delta," 
is  superintending  a  gang  of  twenty 
stevedores,  busy  hauling  a  section  of 
the  great  flywheel  of  the  Presidente's 
electric-light  plant.  Many  idlers  are 
looking  on. 

The  scene  presents  a  picture  of  peace 
beneath  the  hot  sun.  "  You  should  have 
seen  the  plaza  yonder  when  General 
Matos,  who  is  now  in  the  Cabinet,  was 
in  insurrection  against  Castro,"  the 
Consul  observes  dreamily.  "  I  did  not 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

think  I  ought  to  leave  the  post,  so  I 
stayed  here.  Two  men  were  behind 
each  of  those  trees  firing  across  the  river 
at  Soledad,  where  the  Government  troops 
were.  We  had  these  windows  barricaded 
with  sacks  of  flour  and  balata — anything 
we  could  get  to  turn  a  bullet.  The 
firing  was  so  continuous  you  could  not 
hear  the  separate  shots.  It  was  a  grind- 
ing roar  like  a  coffee-mill. 

"They  fight,  I  tell  you,  like  devils/' 
he  continues.  "  I  saw  the  insurrectos 
charge  the  Government  troops,  machete 
against  rifles.  They  came  round  that 
corner  too  quick  and  close  for  the  regulars 
to  kill.  The  revolutionists  were  splitting 
heads  like  coco-nuts.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  men  killed  out  in  front  there.  Don't 
let  any  one  tell  you  these  Revolutions  are 
a  joke.  Two  thousand  men  killed  out  of 
seven  thousand  engaged  is  what  they  did 
here.  The  cemetery  of  La  Trinidad,  where 
the  insurgents  of  the  town  were  attacked 
196 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

by  Castro's  men,  was  simply  heaped  with 
bodies.  Go  and  look  at  that  lamp-post 
over  by  Wadsworth  before  you  leave. 
Those  holes  are  from  Mauser  bullets." 

Wadsworth  has  hitched  to  it  a  block 
and  tackle  to  give  a  purchase  for  his  fly- 
wheel. You  stroll  across.  In  the  lamp- 
post, some  4  inches  in  diameter,  there 
are  twenty-two  holes.  In  a  telegraph- 
pole  farther  along  there  are  thirteen. 

" What's  up?"  asks  Wadsworth. 

You  tell  him  that  you  are  looking  at 
the  bullet-holes. 

"  Gee  I "  he  says ;  "I  saw  them,  and 
thought  somebody  had  done  it  with  a 
pick."  He  wipes  his  forehead  and 
observes  cynically:  "I'm  glad  the  army 
is  good  for  fighting.  They  sent  part  of  it 
down  to  help  pull  up  this  machinery  and 
the  men  weren't  worth  a  whoop.  I  had  to 
engage  these  stevedores,  who  get  two 
dollars  a  day  instead  of  eight  cents,  like  the 
Army.  Gee  I  but  I'm  having  a  time  with 

197 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

this  little  plant.  They  told  me  the  founda- 
tions were  all  ready  and  I  only  had  to  set 
up  the  machinery.  When  I  got  here  I 
found  they  had  made  the  concrete  without 
gravel  and  the  holes  for  the  engine  bed- 
plate were  8  inches  out  of  true.  And  slow! 
This  isn't  the  land  of  manana,  as  they 
say ;  it  is  the  land  of  pasado  manana — 
the  day  after  to-morrow." 

It  is  about  time  to  go  to  the  Presidente, 
so  you  return  to  the  hotel  and  wait  for 
your  escort.  He  comes  soon,  takes  a 
refreshment  with  you,  and  then  leads  the 
way  to  the  seat  of  government.  The 
sentry  presents  arms  and  a  black  servant 
in  civilian  clothes  takes  in  your  card. 
You  are  ushered  into  a  parlour  over- 
looking the  market-place.  A  beautiful 
jaguar  rug  on  the  floor,  dainty  Parisian 
furniture,  and  a  few  engravings  are  its 
furnishing. 

Almost  immediately  comes  in  a  fine- 
looking  man  of  about  forty,  with  a  deter- 
198 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

mined-looking  jaw  and  energy  in  every 
movement. 

"  His  Excellency  General  Aristides  Tel- 
leria,"  says  your  guide,  introducing  you. 

"Sea  Usted  bien  venido,"  he  remarks. 
"We  do  not  get  many  Americans  travel- 
ling for  pleasure  here.  The  senor  is  a 
welcome  guest." 

You  express  appreciation  of  the  cour- 
tesies extended  by  the  Custom  House  and 
the  officials  up  the  river,  to  which  he 
responds  by  a  deprecatory  shrug.  He 
asks  about  the  hunting  on  the  way. 

"  I  have  hunted  all  around  my  own 
estates  in  Coro,"  he  says,  "but  not  here. 
This  State  of  Bolivar  is  as  large  as  France, 
and  it  keeps  one  somewhat  occupied." 

You  mention  having  seen  his  telegraph- 
poles  in  process  of  delivery,  and  he  asks 
about  how  many  are  lying  ready  for 
shipment. 

'  The  electric  light  and  the  roads  are  just 
a  beginning,"  he  comments.  "We  need 

199 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

so  much  here — sewers,  good  waterworks, 
a  railroad  into  the  interior.  But  it  is  a 
long  pull.  There  is  so  little  population, 
and  save  for  a  few  merchants  the  people 
are  so  poor." 

You  remark  incidentally  that  you  have 
seen  the  river  and  hope  to  see  something 
of  the  interior.  Rather  to  your  surprise 
he  says  at  once,  "  I  will  arrange  it,"  and 
adds  the  Castilian  formula  to  the  effect 
that  his  house  is  yours  :  "  Haga  Usted  lo 
mismo  que  si  estuviera  in  su  casa."  You 
pay  your  respects  and  presently  leave. 

Passing  up  the  street,  you  step  in  upon 
Senor  Jos£  Aquatella,  who  takes  you  to 
the  Club  Union  Commercial.  He  orders 
two  lemonades,  and  you  sit  together  on 
the  broad  portico  overlooking  the  Calle 
de  Orinoco  and  the  river. 

"Sans  blague,  the  Presidente  is  an  ex- 
cellent man,"  he  says.  "  He  is  one  of  the 
best  Governors  we  have  ever  had,  always 
working  to  improve  the  roads  and  to  en- 
200 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

courage  cattle-breeding.     A  Presidente  can 

do  much.     He  is  a  Satrap,  supreme  over 

!  the  entire  State.     If  the   other  Governors 

|  were   like   our   General    and    would   help, 

i!  much   could    be    done   with    this   country. 

The    sleeping    riches     here     are     beyond 

belief.      We    are    simply    pecking    at    the 

j  edges.     Nobody    knows    what    is    in    the 

interior  of  this   Guiana   district.     But  so 

many  officials  just  milk  the  cow!      Et  la 

vache,  c'est  nous." 

We  sip  the  lemonade  and  look  at  the 
river.  "  Never  mind,"  he  finally  says. 
"  Bolivar  still  stands  up  above  there 
watching  over  the  city.  Let  us  go  and 
look  at  him." 

In  the   cool    of  the    late   afternoon   we 

jl  climb   the    cobble-paved    hill  to   its   sum- 

j  mit,    where    in    the     square    beside     the 

cathedral,     surrounded     by     palms      and 

!  flowers,  stands  the  statue  of  Bolivar  and 

the   effigies   of  the   four   Republics   made 

from      the      land      he      won — Venezuela, 

201 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Colombia,  Bolivia,  and  Peru.  The  thin 
worn  features  of  El  Libertador  look  brood- 
ingly  down  over  the  city  in  which  he  was 
elected  President  of  Greater  Colombia,  and 
from  which  he  started  the  great  winter 
march  across  the  Andes  to  break  the  back- 
bone of  Spanish  rule  on  the  continent. 

We  go  down  to  Mannoni's  for  dinner. 
One  by  one  the  guests  stroll  in.  Wads- 
worth  comes  back  and  changes  from  his 
khaki  to  a  shirt  and  collar.  Mr.  Hender- 
son appears,  then  two  German  drummers, 
then  three  Corsican  traders  and  an 
English  tourist  whom  nothing  pleases. 
M.  Mattey  and  his  nephew  enter 
with  a  young  Cuban  just  arrived.  M. 
Mattey  is  expounding  to  him  volubly 
the  merits  of  the  city. 

"  Voyez  vous,"  he  declares,  "  ici  il  n'y 
a  pas  de  la  fi£vre.  I  have  lived  here 
sixteen  years,  and  the  only  time  I  was  ill 
was  once  when  I  got  very  angry  at  a  man. 
Un  acc£s  de  rage  me  rendait  malade.  Of 
202 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

course,  it  is  hot  at  this  time,  but  not 
very — 92°  to  112°  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  The  average  temperature  is  80°,  and 
it  is  fairly  cool  generally  by  night." 

The  gong  sounds  for  seven  o'clock. 

u  Allons  diner,"  says  Mannoni. 

"You  should  say  'Allons  souper," 
observes  M.  Mattey,  correcting  him. 

Mannoni  is  wounded  to  the  quick  that 
his  language  and  the  regime  of  his  estab- 
lishment should  be  so  questioned.  He 
declares  that  it  is  "  diner"  and  nothing 
else.  The  rest  of  the  table  at  which  he 
is  now  officiating  is  behind  him.  Mattey 
adroitly  shifts  his  ground. 

"  But  if  you  took  your  next  meal  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  it  would  be 
dejeuner,  and  you  would  have  had  no 
souper." 

This  puzzles  Mannoni  sadly.  Every 
possible  hour  for  a  repast  is  imagined, 
and  its  title  discussed.  Sefior  Aquatella 
says  all  depends  upon  whether  you  wear 

203 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

a  dress-suit.  M.  Tomasi  opines  that  it 
is  decided  by  whether  you  go  to  sleep 
before  or  after.  M.  Vicentini  believes  that 
if  you  take  white  coffee  the  meal  is  break- 
fast, and  black  coffee  it  is  supper.  Man- 
noni's  brother  is  appealed  to  as  a  soldier. 
He  replies  that  in  barracks  every  meal  is 
called  a  "  pail  of  slops,"  which  the  guests 
take  as  a  point  scored  on  Mannoni,  at 
which  they  laugh  uproariously. 

This  question  gets  no  nearer  settlement 
than  did  the  revolver  problem.  After 
dinner  most  of  the  residents  stroll  down 
to  the  club  for  billiards,  cards,  or  to  talk 
politics.  The  others  sit  and  smoke  around 
the  courtyard,  and  very  early  everybody 
drops  off  to  bed. 

When  "  El  Luchador,"  the  daily  paper 
of  Bolivar,  is  brought  around,  the  wave  of 
discussion  waxes  hot,  although  it  is  the 
most  innocuous  sheet  ever  printed.  About 
half  the  paper  is  given  up  to  first,  second, 
and  third  advertisements  of  balata-con- 
204 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

cession  claims,  official  pronunciamientos 
regarding  cattle  in  the  city  limits,  thatch 
on  houses,  and  such  technical  details. 

Among  the  advertisements  the  familiar 
Allcock's  porous  plaster  spreads  its  sticky 
lure,  flanked  by  many  sorts  of  "  Pildoras." 
A  woman  in  wood-cut  begs  her  husband, 
whose  hand  clasps  a  glass,  to  put  a  certain 
powder  into  his  coffee.  This  will  kill 
his  appetite  for  drinking,  which  "  is  a 
vice  and  will  ruin  us."  One  Dr.  Diaz  y 
Diaz  announces  to  "  cultivated  society 
and  to  the  public  in  general  "  that  he  is 
a  "  Cirujano  Dentista  de  la  Illustre  Uni- 
versidad  Central  de  Venezuela."  Some 
eminently  safe  and  sane  leading  articles 
on  the  Bolivian  Medical  Congress,  the 
celebration  of  the  5th  of  July,  the  Cattle 
Pest,  the  "  Labor  Noble"  of  the  office- 
holders, and  a  few  foreign  cables  constitute 
the  reading  matter. 

Fitzgerald  appears  a  few  days  after  your 
arrival.  He  has  measured  the  Falls  of 

205 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Caroni,  and  has  come  to  the  conclusior 
that  here  is  the  power  for  an  inland  rail- 
road. Pending  an  application  for  a  powei 
plant  and  railway  concession,  he  is  goin^ 
back  to  Trinidad  on  some  mysterious  bui 
pressing  business.  After  a  day's  stay  h( 
leaves  by  the  "  Delta,"  promising  to  meel 
you  at  Port  of  Spain. 

You  gradually  peddle  off  your  letters 
M.  Jules  Tomasi,  the  Corsican  wine- 
merchant,  puts  you  up  indefinitely  at  the 
Club  Union  Commercial,  of  which  Senoi 
Josd  Aquatella  is  President  and  M 
Mannoni  Secretary.  M.  Santos  Palazz: 
is  at  his  desk  in  the  big  warehouse,  when 
balata,  hides,  machetes,  wines,  rum,  tools 
and  saddlery  lie  in  picturesque  piles.  H( 
is  a  splendidly  set-up  man  of  about  thirty- 
five,  clean-shaven,  save  for  a  moustache 
He  is  a  keen  sportsman,  President  of  th< 
local  Gun  Club  and  of  an  incipient  Yachl 
Club,  and  owner  of  the  stallion  which  foi 
the  last  two  years  has  won  the  Bolivar  races 
206 


m 


A   BELLE   OF   BOLIVAR 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

He  takes  you  up  to  his  residence  in 
the  Calle  de  Constitucion,  to  meet  Senora 
Palazzi.  Their  home  is  on  the  second 
story  of  an  old,  thick-walled  Spanish 
house,  up  the  hill  near  Mannoni's.  In 
the  hall-way  beside  the  courtyard  are  a 
dozen  deer-horns,  trophies  of  bygone 
hunts.  Light  mahogany  furniture  is  in 
the  rooms.  A  gilt  cabinet  for  little  curios 
contains  nuggets,  carved  ivories,  and  Dutch 
silver. 

Senora  Palazzi,  a  slight  vivacious  Cara- 
cefia,  clad  in  the  latest  Parisian  mode, 
greets  you  here.  English  and  French 
she  speaks  perfectly,  thanks  to  French 
governesses  and  two  years  at  Convent, 
New  Jersey.  She  is  in  touch  with  plays, 
books,  and  events  as  recent  as  the  mails 
allow. 

In  a  dog-cart  drawn  by  her  husband's 
racing  stallion  she  drives  you  to  see  the 
11  Morechales,"  or  country  places  around 
the  outskirts  of  Bolivar.  The  low  cot- 

207 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

tages  are  surrounded  by  grounds  luxuri- 
ant in  vegetation  and  abounding  in  all 
manner  of  fruit  trees.  It  is  a  beautiful 
drive  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  with 
only  occasional  bumps  where  watercourses 
cross  the  road.  Half  a  dozen  vehicles  are 
on  the  way,  filled  with  the  wealth  and 
beauty  of  Bolivar.  We  drive  to  Mara- 
quita  and  return  to  the  Palazzis'  suburban 
tract,  where  they  expect  soon  to  build  a 
house. 

At  present  only  the  stables  for  three 
racing  horses  and  the  kennels  for  a  dozen 
tiger-dogs  are  completed.  Curious  dogs 
are  these,  descendants  from  the  hounds 
brought  over  by  the  Spaniards.  They 
resemble  those  which  one  sees  in  old 
tapestries,  grey-brindled  with  grey-blue 
slanting  eyes.  They  have  no  pedigree, 
but  breed  fairly  true. 

Dinner  with  the  Palazzis  is  an  uncere- 
monious   meal    to   which  friends  come   as 
they  will.     At  one  of  these  repasts,  where 
208 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

you  and  a  young  Venezuelan  are  guests, 
Senor  Palazzi  tells  of  an  expedition  he 
has  in  view  to  look  for  buried  treasure. 

"  This  city,  you  know,  was  one  of  the 
last  that  was  held  by  the  Spaniards  during 
the  War  of  Independence.  All  the  monks 
from  round  about  and  the  wealthy  land- 
owners and  the  officials  fled  to  it.  Some 
brought  their  possessions,  and  when 
Bolivar  entered  the  city,  buried  them  here. 
A  tenant  in  one  of  my  father's  houses 
up  the  street  found  a  treasure  and  left 
the  country  a  rich  man.  All  these  houses 
were  built  by  the  Spaniards  and  have  walls 
3  feet  thick,  with  secret  closets  and  floors. 

'  Many  buried  money  in  the  country. 
Eight  million  pesos'  worth  of  gold  is  said 
to  have  been  interred  at  the  old  monastery 
of  San  Seraphine.  When  the  monks 
left  they  gave  their  Indians  a  basket  of 
corn,  and  told  them  to  throw  away  a  grain 
each  day.  If  no  one  had  come  when  the 
corn  was  gone  they  were  to  dig  up  the 
p  209 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

treasure  and  throw  it  in  the  Caroni. 
Years  ago  a  monk  came  with  the  plan 
of  the  hiding-place.  He  found  the  cave 
and  the  mouldering  chests.  But  the 
treasure  was  gone  ;  the  Indians  had  kept 
their  word. 

"  Now  only  a  week  ago  some  peons  on 
an  estate  of  ours  found  a  cave  with  a 
doorway  to  it,  bricked  up.  They  started 
to  break  the  door  down,  but  got  frightened 
of  ghosts.  I  have  planned  to  go  there 
and  enter.  We  may  find  nothing — we 
may  find  a  treasure.  People  don't  go  to 
the  trouble  of  bricking  up  a  doorway  for 
nothing.  I  am  afraid  of  snakes,  but  not 
of  ghosts." 

"The  mention  of  your  ghosts,"  says 
the  Venezuelan,  "reminds  me  of  a 
veracious  tale  about  a  peon  near  our 
estate  who  met  a  veiled  figure  on  a 
lonely  road. 

"'Who    are     you?'     said     the     peon 
tremblingly. 
210 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

" '  I  am  the  devil,'  a  voice  answered 
in  sepulchral  tones.  The  peon  walked 
up  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  '  Embrace  me,  amigo.  I  married  your 
sister. ' " 

Senor  Palazzi  smiles  broadly ;  Senora 
Palazzi  is  a  little  piqued. 

"A  disgracefully  ungallant  story,"  she 
says.  "  I  will  tell  you  a  better  one,  and 
true,  too.  It  is  about  a  young  girl,  a 
Caracena,  sixteen  years  old,  who  lived 
with  her  grandmother.  I  will  not  give 
the  real  names,  though  you  will  know 
them.  We  will  call  the  girl  Senorita 
Dolores  Blanco.  The  grandmother  be- 
longed to  an  old  Caracas  family  which 
had  some  fine  rare  port,  dating  from  the 
time  of  the  Spaniards.  The  good  dame 
was  stingy  and  would  let  no  one 
partake  of  the  closely  guarded  treasure. 

"  One  day  Dolores,  coming  from  the 
garden,  hot  and  tired,  found  the  cave 
door  unlocked  and  was  seized  with  a 

211 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

desire  to  sample  her  grandmother's 
vintage.  Noticing  in  the  corner  an  old 
dust-covered  bottle  which  had  once  been 
opened,  she  drew  the  cork  and  poured 
some  of  its  contents  into  a  glass.  Then, 
hearing  footsteps,  she  gulped  it  down 
precipitately. 

"  At  once  a  sickening  nausea  came  over 
her.  Her  lips  blanched,  her  eyes  became 
glazed,  and  her  face  took  on  an  ashen 
hue.  The  grandmother,  who  had  come 
in,  snatched  up  the  empty  bottle.  It  was 
marked  '  Death  to  Vermin  ' ! 

"  Dolores  was  carried  hastily  to  bed 
and  a  doctor  was  summoned.  Only  with 
great  efforts  he  was  able  to  save  her 
life. 

"When  at  last  she  was  out  of  danger, 
the  family  group  around  her  bed  plied 
her  with  questions. 

" '  Why  did  you  drink  the  poison,'  they 
asked  ;  '  did  you  want  to  die  ? ' 

"  Dolores,   too   exhausted   for  argument 

212 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

and   adverse  to   confessing  her   pilfering, 
just  nodded  weakly,  'Si,  si/ 

"  '  She  is  in  love/  said  the  grandmother 
dogmatically.  *  Who  is  it  ? ' 

"The  girl  felt  lost  and  baffled.  She 
was  tired  and  confused  and  was  becom- 
ing overwhelmed  by  the  people  around. 
Her  grandmother  leaned  over,  insisting : 
1  Tell  us  who  it  is,'  and  her  mother 
comforted  her :  *  You  shall  marry  him. 
Do  not  be  troubled.' 

"The  poor  girl  could  say  nothing. 

"  '  I  know  who  it  is,'  said  the  grand- 
mother. *  It  is  Juan  Garcia.  Is  it  not 
he?' 

"  The  girl  moved  uneasily. 

"  *  But  she  has  seen  him  hardly  twice,' 
protested  the  mother. 

"'That  is  enough  to  do  the  mischief,' 
said  the  grandmother.  'Well,  we  cannot 
have  her  killing  herself  this  way.  I  will 
add  fifty  thousand  pesos  to  her  dot  and 
in  three  months  she  shall  marry  him.' 

213 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  Juan  Garcia's  surprise  when  he  learned 
that  Sefiorita  Dolores  Blanco  had  tried 
to  poison  herself  because  of  him  was  very 
great.  But  after  he  had  thought  it  over, 
had  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass,  twirled 
his  moustache  and  pulled  down  his  tie, 
he  had  to  admit  the  girl's  good  taste. 

"  '  After  all/  he  meditated,  '  I  am  begin- 
ning to  tire  of  the  life  of  a  bachelor. 
This  senorita  is  pretty,  her  family  is  of 
the  best,  and  the  dot  is  muy  conveniente. 
Why  not  make  her  happy  ? '  He  proposed 
to  her  parents,  who  did  not  even  consult 
Dolores  before  giving  their  consent. 

"  Senorita  Dolores  Blanco  became  Senora 
Garcia,  and  .they  have  lived  happily  ever 
after.  The  story  leaked  out,  and  though 
the  family  denies  it,  every  one  in  Caracas 
knows  it  is  true." 

Late    in    the    evening,   pondering    the 

strange     marriages     that     are     made    in 

heaven,   you  wander   back   to    Mannoni's. 

You  are  still  early  enough  to  watch  a  half 

214 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

a  dozen  less  startling,  but  perhaps  equally 
romantic,  courtships  arranging  themselves 
through  the  bars  of  the  houses  along 
the  hill. 

The  Acaddmie  Franchise  is  under  dis- 
cussion at  breakfast  next  morning. 

"The  Academicians  can't  even  finish 
a  dictionary,"  says  one  of  the  Latin  table. 

Mattey  declares  "quand  m£me"  that 
they  are  the  greatest  body  of  men  in  the 
world. 

"But  the  Academy  refused  Fulton's 
steamboat  when  Napoleon  referred  it  to 
them,"  observes  our  Consul. 

This  reminds  Vicentini  of  a  picture  of 
Napoleon  at  St.  Helena.  He  is  watching 
a  steamboat  on  the  horizon  and  smites 
his  head,  saying,  "Si  j'avais  cru!"  ("Had 
I  only  believed !  "). 

Wads  worth  comes  in  to  the  table 
immensely  pleased.  "The  foundation 
builder  was  going  to  hold  up  our  whole 
installation  with  his  delays.  The  Presi- 

215 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

dente  came  down  himself  to-day  and  cut 
away  a  mile  of  red  tape.  He  has  put 
the  fear  of  God  into  the  contractor.  You 
ought  to  see  the  men  working  now.  I 
think  he  said  he'd  hang  somebody  if  the 
job  was  not  done  on  time." 

The  Cuban  friend  of  Mattey's  is  giving 
some  lurid  details  of  the  United  States 
intervention  there.  "Why,  the  whole 
trouble  was  started  for  five  thousand 
dollars,"  he  says ;  "I  know,  for  I  got 
some  of  it.  Cuba  had  twenty  million 
dollars  in  her  treasury  and  the  Yankees 
wanted  that.  They  spent  the  money  on 
roads,  framing  up  deals  with  the  con- 
tractors, and  then  they  evacuated  the 
country.  It  was  all  nonsense  about  the 
negroes  or  the  Liberals  stirring  up  the 
row. 

"We  did  not  fight  a  battle;  just  marched 

around    and    burned    farmers'    barns,"    he 

continues  ;  "  I  had  two  hundred  men,  not 

over  ten  armed,  and  we   wanted   to   pass 

216 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

the  Government  post  near  Caballo.  So  I 
sent  word  to  the  captain  that  I  was  going 
to  attack  the  town  and  ordered  him  to 
send  away  the  women.  He  drew  in  his 
outposts  and  I  was  able  to  pass.  It  was 
a  good  joke  on  him.  But  that  revolution 
was  una  representation  dramatical 

The  Commandante  of  Bolivar,  El  Senor 
Coronel  Pilar  Para,  invites  you  to  go 
shooting  with  him  along  a  lagoon  across 
the  river.  Wood-pigeon  are  the  objective. 
It  is  a  real  test  of  shooting  to  get  these 
birds  in  the  instant  before  they  dive  down 
into  the  brush.  The  difficulties  of  wing 
shooting,  however,  do  not  trouble  El 
Senor  Coronel.  He  sneaks  up  to  a  dis- 
tance of  about  ten  yards  and  lets  them 
have  it  sitting.  Then  he  turns  around 
and  grins,  while  a  boy  goes  into  the  brush 
for  the  mangled  remains.  Twelve  pigeons 
and  two  parrots  are  the  bag  before  it  gets 
too  hot  for  comfort  and  we  return. 

At    dinner    that    night  Senor  Vicentini 

217 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

asks  if  you  know  a  certain  French  paper. 
In  a  passing  way,  you  allow. 

"They  are  blagueurs"  he  says;  "last 
month  they  showed  a  picture  of  the 
Calle  Babilonia  here  in  Bolivar  with  the 
rebels  of  Matos's  revolution,  and  labelled  it 
*  Mexican  insurgents  at  Juarez.' ' 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  how  Palazzi 
saved  us  from  starvation  in  that  Revolu- 
tion?" asks  M.  Mattey. 

"Was  that  Senor  Santos  Palazzi?" 
you  ask. 

"  Si,  si ;  Santos  Palazzi,  whom  you 
know,"  says  Senor  Vicentini. 

"  Bien,"  continues  M.  Mattey  ;  "  the  in- 
surgents— Matos's  men — had  held  this  city 
for  nearly  two  years.  But  after  the  big 
battle  which  Castro  won,  the  Government 
troops  came  closer  and  closer  in.  They 
raided  the  country  behind,  where  we  got 
our  provisions.  They  blockaded  the  river 
with  their  gunboats.  Save  a  few  who  had 
depots,  we  could  get  no  food  except  some 
218 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

fish  from  the  Orinoco  or  some  mangoes 
from  Marequita.  Many  were  on  the  point 
of  starvation." 

11  En  effet  c'6tait  affreux,"  exclaims 
Sefior  Aquatella,  who  has  been  listening. 

"  It  was  at  this  time  that  Palazzi  said 
he  would  bring  food.  Nobody  believed 
him,  for  we  knew  that  Castro  was  every- 
where victorious.  But  Palazzi  got  a 
coriara,  covered  it  over  with  green 
branches,  and  on  a  night  when  there  was 
no  moon  started  down  stream  with  two 
peons. 

"Only  at  night  they  paddled.  In  the 
day  they  hid  in  canos  or  under  over- 
hanging trees.  At  San  Felix  was  the 
gunboat.  They  stole  past  close  to  the 
bank,  like  a  shadow  between  the  beams 
of  the  searchlight.  It  was  to  stand 
against  a  wall  with  a  file  of  men  in  front 
if  he  were  caught. 

"After  passing  San  Felix  it  was  not 
so  bad.  He  got  down  to  the  mouth  of 

219 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  Orinoco  and  was  picked  up  by  an 
American  cruiser — its  name  I  forget ;  per- 
haps it  was  the  '  Gloucester.'  Any  way, 
the  American  captain  refused  to  permit 
us  to  be  starved.  He  had  the  'Apure 
loaded  up  with  food  and  started  with  it 
to  relieve  us. 

"At  Los  Castillos,  the  commander  of 
the  fort  was  going  to  fire  on  the  ' Apure.' 
But  the  American  captain  trained  his 
cannon  and  sent  word  that  on  the  first 
shot  he  would  blow  the  fort  into  little 
pieces.  So  Castro's  men  did  not  fire. 
And  we  got  food." 

"  Et  $a  gotitait  bien,  parbleu ! "  adds 
Senor  Vicentini. 

The  Presidente  has  sent  a  request  for 
you  to  come  at  four  o'clock  to  his  house. 
A  tall,  very  dark  Venezuelan  gentleman 
with  a  thin  eagle  nose  and  a  full  beard  is 
there — Senor  Ygnacio  Alvarado.  Genera 
Telleria  introduces  you.  Then  he  an- 
nounces the  purport  of  his  summons. 

220 


The  City  of  Bolivar 

The  senor  has  been  so  good  as  to 
invite  you  to  his  estate  at  San  Jose,  so 
that  you  may  see  something  of  the 
interior  of  Guiana.  He  is  leaving  in  a 
day  or  so.  Would  you  like  to  go? 

You  are  rather  taken  aback.  The  Pre- 
sidente  has  manifestly  issued  to  this  grave 
senor  a  royal  request  that  you  be  invited. 
Of  course,  however,  you  will  be  delighted 
to  accept  the  kindness.  It  is  not  a  chance 
to  miss. 

The  Presidente  asks  about  your  outfit — 
a  poncho,  a  mosquito  bar,  a  hammock? 

"  Give  me  the  pleasure  of  being  allowed 
to   attend   to   the   equipment    and   to   the 
provisions     for     the     road,"    says     Senor 
Dr  Alvarado  in  quiet  dignity. 

"How  about  a  horse?"  asks  Telleria. 
'  Perhaps   for   the   comfort   of  the   trip 
]  a  mule  is  better,"  says  Alvarado.     "  I  can 
3I   get  one  from  Montez." 

"  Good  !  "  says  General  Telleria.  Then 
he  turns  to  you.  "You  are  in  the  best 

221 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

of  hands  with  my  friend,"  he  says  cordially. 
11  Vou  will  meet  Dr.  Velazquez,  a  great 
hunter,  one  of  the  finest  examples  of  an 
intelligent  and  educated  estate  owner. 
Have  a  good  time  and  drop  in  to  see  me 
upon  the  return.  Adios,  hasta  la  vista !  " 
He  shakes  your  hand  warmly.  Rather 
bewildered  and  decidedly  conscience- 
stricken  at  being  thus  imposed  upon  the 
hospitality  of  his  personal  friends,  you 
take  your  departure  to  make  ready  for 
the  trip. 


222 


VI 

ON   THE   LLANOS 

SENOR  ALVARADO  accompanies  you 
to  the  hotel  to  work  out  the  expedi- 
tion. He  is  the  traditional  Spanish 
gentleman,  grave,  dignified,  soft-spoken, 
of  punctilious  courtesy.  He  explains  in 
fuller  detail  the  expedition  which  El 
Presidente  has  arranged.  You  are  to  go 
to  his  estate  at  San  Jose,  some  seventy 
miles  southward  on  the  Garapo  River,  in 
the  heart  of  the  plains.  There  you  will 
hunt  and  be  shown  the  life  of  the 
Venezuelan  ranch-owners.  Food  is  to  be 
carried  packed  on  a  burro  for  the  stretches 
where  no  supplies  are  obtainable. 

"  But  most  of  the  people  along  the  road 
are  relatives  of  mine,"  adds  Sefior  Alvarado. 

223 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

He  asks  to  see  your  equipment.  The 
rubber  poncho  he  condemns  at  once.  It  j 
is  too  small,  and  you  must  have  some- 
thing warm.  "  I  will  get  you  a  covija" 
Your  mosquito  net,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  meshes  which  are  too  large. 

"  It  must  be  very  fine,  like  a  lady's  I 
veil,"  he  says.  "It  must  fit  well  over 
the  hammock.  I  will  get  the  right 
sort."  The  hammock  that  you  have 
acquired  at  Mannoni's  he  thinks  will  do. 
"  Everybody  sleeps  in  hammocks  out 
on  the  llanos,"  he  remarks. 

The  mule  is  the  next  quest.  We  go 
down  the  Calle  de  Constitution  to  the 
Calle  Babilonia  and  enter  the  general 
merchandise  store  of  Guilelmo  Montez. 
The  proprietor  is  wedged  in  a  corner 
behind  a  high  desk.  He  has  tobacco, 
canned  goods,  blankets,  balata,  machetes, 
cheeses,  everything  that  one  can  think  of. 
He  is  round  as  a  dumpling,  tanned 
nearly  to  the  black  of  a  negro,  and  with 
224 


On  the  Llanos 

his    broad    smile    looks     like    an    ebony 
idol. 

Yes,  he  has  a  "buen  mula."  It  is  in 
the  courtyard  behind,  and  we  go  out  to 
look  at  it.  A  capuchin  monkey  on  the 
veranda  roof,  chained  by  his  middle, 
reaches  for  your  hat  as  you  pass,  and  a 
guinea-cock  jumps  to  one  side. 

The  mule  is  brought  out  and  looks  all 
right,  save  for  a  saddle  gall,  which  you 
object  to. 

"  No  importa,"  says  Senor  Alvarado, 
shaking  a  long  finger,  "  I  will  fix  it.  You 
try  him." 

A  couple  of  black  boys  go  to  get  the 
saddlery.  It  takes  two  of  them  to  bring 
it.  Really,  it  is  appalling  what  is  put 
on  to  that  little  beast.  First  comes  a 
Blanket,  carefully  folded  so  as  to  leave 
a  depression  along  the  spine.  Then 
bllows  a  piece  of  sacking  with  a  hole 
cut  in  it  over  the  sore.  Next  an  oilskin, 
stuffed  with  straw  on  the  under  side,  and 
Q  225 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

reinforced  over  the  withers.  Then  a  leather 
saddle-cloth  with  coloured  patterns  sewn 
in.  Last,  the  big  embroidered  saddle  with 
pockets  and  jingling  rings  on  all  sides. 
It  is  covered  with  some  yellow  upholstery 
which  looks  like  a  bath  towel. 

Alvarado  smiles  with  pleasure  as  the 
latter  is  cinched  tight. 

"We  will  put  the  saddlebags  one  on 
each  side,  and  strap  the  covija  behind. 
The  mosquito  net  you  can  sit  on,  and 
we  will  put  a  surcingle  over  it,  which  will 
make  the  riding  softer." 

You  feel  as  if  you  were  on  a  miniature 
Eiffel  Tower  as  you  mount.  No  wonder 
the  mule  looks  discouraged.  His  poor 
thin  neck  and  wabbly  ears  are  far  below 
you.  With  the  ferocious  curb  loose,  you 
take  a  turn  around  the  block  and  come 
back.  The  saddle  sore  has  not  rubbed 
and  the  mule  goes  at  a  very  comfortable 
gait. 

Montez  swears  it  is  strong  enough  for 
226 


On  the  Llanos 

any  trip,  and  Alvarado  nods  his  head : 
"Buen  mulal" 

You  return  to  the  hotel  and  arrange 
to  leave  next  day  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon. 

Some  laundry  work  would  be  desirable, 
so  the  boy  is  called. 

"Only  a  Chinaman  can  do  him  so 
quick,"  he  says. 

You  summon  the  official  head  Celestial 
and  put  it  to  him.  He  thinks  a  moment, 
for  half  past  three  next  day  is  a  rush 
order  in  this  land  of  pasado  manana. 
The  Mongolian,  however,  here  as  every- 
where in  the  world,  is  equal  to  profitable 
business.  Finally,  he  agrees  to  deliver. 

During  your  last  dinner  at  Mannoni's 
you  hear  another  discussion,  regarding 
the  time  of  the  steamer  run  from  Ciudad 
Bolivar  to  Cayenne.  It  varies  from  two 
to  five  days,  according  to  Senor  Aquatella 
and  M.  Vicentini  respectively. 

Wadsworth,  too,  gives  you  his  last  ad- 

227 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

monitions  regarding  the  Spanish  language : 
"  Make  everything  masculine,  and  don't 
bother  about  tenses  and  things.  People 
will  look  surprised,  but  still  they  will 
understand." 

You  eat  another  of  Mr.  Henderson's 
mangoes,  and  go  out  into  the  court  and 
smoke. 

At  four  o'clock  Senor  Alvarado  comes 
for  you  at  Mannoni's.  He  is  dressed  in 
black  and  wears  a  wide  brown  plush 
sombrero  and  black  leggings.  Outside  is 
a  peon  with  his  steed,  and  the  "  buen 
mula"  for  yourself.  The  Chinaman  has 
kept  his  word.  Presently  you  are  ready, 
with  some  spare  linen  packed  in  a  saddle- 
bag, your  rifle  in  its  sling,  and  binoculars 
handy.  The  hotel  turns  out  to  see  you 
climb  on  to  the  lofty  peaked  saddle,  tower- 
ing above  the  mule,  and  start  up  the 
cobbled  hill. 

Along  the  steep  road,  bordered  by  the 
pale  blue  and  yellow  stucco  houses  with 
228 


On  the  Llanos 

their  barred  windows,  in  front  of  the 
white  cathedral  and  the  brooding  statue 
of  Bolivar,  we  go,  the  mules  picking  their 
way  daintily  among  the  cobble  -  stones. 
Through  the  Plaza  Miranda  on  the  top 
of  the  hill  the  hoofs  clatter.  We  pass 
the  Infantry  Barracks,  then  take  the  steep 
slope,  and  draw  in  under  the  shadow 
of  the  old  Spanish  monastery,  with  its 
sentry-boxes  on  the  wall.  We  skirt  the 
cemetery  of  La  Trinidad,  leaving  the 
ruined  Spanish  fort  which  guarded  the 
height  to  our  left. 

"  There  Bolivar  stood,"  says  Alvarado, 
"just  before  he  entered  Angostura  to  be 
named  President.  There  he  chose  the 
colours  of  the  flag  for  Greater  Colombia. 
It  had  been  raining,  and  the  sun  came  out 
over  the  city  as  El  Libertador's  force  came 
onto  the  crest. 

"  '  What  better  flag/  he  exclaimed,  'can 
we  have  than  the  colour  of  the  heavens 
with  the  rainbow  aglow?*  That  is  why 

229 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  nations  that  were  made  from  his 
great  Republic  have  such  bright  colours 
on  their  banners." 

We  enter  a  road  leading  between  sub- 
urban country  houses.  One  cottage  has 
over  its  door  the  name  "  San  Buena- 
ventura." 

A  peon  here  salutes  our  host.  He  reins 
in  his  mule  for  a  moment,  and  each  man 
puts  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  Buenos   dias,  amigo,"  says  Alvarado. 

Three  or  four  other  friends  come  up 
while  we  stand  and  are  greeted  in  this 
way.  Alvarado  knows  a  good  half  of 
the  people  in  the  streets  as  we  pass  along, 
and  for  each  one,  high  or  low,  he  has 
this  affectionate  salutation. 

The  road  broadens  out  presently  into 
a  succession  of  trails  with  grass  between, 
and  we  pass  woods  and  thickets  of  middle- 
sized  trees.  After  about  two  hours 
of  riding  we  meet  a  band  of  peons, 
whom  Alvarado  hails  and  from  whom 
230 


On  the  Llanos 

he  asks  a  question  regarding  Dr. 
Sarto.  One  of  them  turns  back  and 
takes  down  the  bars  of  a  gate  a  few 
hundred  yards  ahead.  We  enter  grounds 
with  small  mango-trees  and  cedars  planted 
here  and  there,  a  neat  row  of  stones  circling 
each  trunk. 

In  front  is  a  long,  low  stucco  building 
whose  roof-thatch  covers  a  veranda  which 
runs  completely  around  it. 

"  A  nephew  of  mine,  Dr.  Sarto,  lives 
here,"  says  Alvarado. 

We  hand  our  mules  over  to  some  boys 
who  run  to  our  service  and  enter  the 
gallery.  Two  ladies  come  out  to  meet 
us.  For  a  moment  one  suspects  that 
they  have  just  risen  from  a  surprised 
siesta  and  have  been  caught  in  rather 
disordered  robes-de-nuit,  for  they  are 
dressed  in  shapeless  loose  white  frocks. 
But  this  proves  to  be  the  regular  house- 
dress  of  the  wives  and  sisters  of  country 
estate  owners. 

231 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

The  ladies  conduct  us  to  the  end  of 
the  veranda,  which  is  the  reception-room 
of  the  house.  Canvas,  reefed  like  the  sail 
of  a  ship,  is  stretched  under  the  thatch, 
ready  to  be  let  down  in  case  of  rain.  The 
walls  of  the  house  are  of  adobe,  whose 
paint,  once  white,  is  much  flaked  away 
and  is  scarred  with  nail-holes.  Two  faded 
engravings  hang  on  the  side  wall,  and 
these,  with  a  table  and  some  rocking- 
chairs,  painted  black,  constitute  the 
furnishings. 

This  family  is  one  of  the  comfortable 
bourgeoisie  of  Ciudad  Bolivar.  Dr.  Sarto 
owns  a  pharmacy,  and  rides  out  home 
after  a  few  hours  in  town  each  day.  He 
is  a  physician,  and  while  speaking  Spanish 
only,  he  reads  French  medical  books  with- 
out difficulty. 

His  wife,  who  has  refined  features  and 

a  pleasant  address,  speaks  the  remnants  of 

French  and  English.     She  once  had  a  fair 

knowledge  of  both  languages,  but  long  iso- 

232 


On  the  Llanos 

lation  from  the  world  and  its  interests  has 
buried  it  and  her  other  possibilities.  Her 
five  children  are  sturdy-looking  and  well 
cared  for,  but  Madame  Sarto  is  sallow, 
careworn,  and  ailing. 

The  Doctoj  himself  comes  home 
presently  on  mule-back.  He  is  a  well- 
built,  strong-looking  man  of  about  forty, 
more  of  the  German  than  the  Spanish 
type.  He  takes  us  for  a  stroll  around  the 
gardens  while  dinner  is  being  prepared. 

In  a  corral  made  of  crooked  posts  from 
the  chapparal-trees  there  are  half  a  dozen 
rather  skinny-looking  cows.  Farther  on 
is  a  little  plantation  which  the  Doctor  has 
started,  with  a  couple  of  tentative  irriga- 
tion ditches.  The  yuma-tree,  from  whose 
roots  cassava  is  made,  bananas,  bread- 
fruits, and  other  plants  are  growing.  A 
cashew-tree,  whose  fruit  is  edible  though 
not  very  good,  but  whose  nut,  growing 
outside  the  fruit,  is  really  excellent,  is 
flourishing  behind  the  house.  The 

233 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

children  run  ahead  of  us  with  sticks  to 
knock  off  mangoes. 

Just  at  nightfall  we  sit  down  on  the 
veranda  to  eat  la  comida.  Boiled  beef 
with  rice  is  the  pikce  de  resistance,  a  sort 
of  Yorkshire  pudding,  made  of  plantains, 
eggs,  and  milk,  accompanying  the  meat. 
Wine  and  beer  are  on  the  table,  and  are 
liberally  taken.  A  crowd  of  little  negro 
children  and  women  dependents  of  the 
house,  who  hover  habitually  about  the 
kitchen  and  the  servants'  quarters,  pass  the 
plates  and  serve  the  repast.  One  expects 
every  minute  to  see  them  fall  over  each 
other  and  make  a  general  cataclysm,  but 
they  graze  adventures  and  deliver  the 
viands  safely. 

The  dinner  scene  is  suddenly  enlivened 
by  a  shriek  from  one  of  these  boys,  who 
has  just  missed  stepping  on  a  scorpion 
with  his  bare  feet.  We  get  up  and 
kill  the  insect  by  stamping  on  it  with 
boots,  then  go  back  to  some  excellent 
234 


On  the  Llanos 

preserves  called  "papoi,"  served  with  a 
white  cheese  which  flakes  away  like  an 
onion — "quesa  a  manos,"  it  is  called. 

We  retire  after  dinner  to  the  other  end 
of  the  veranda  for  coffee  and  cigarettes. 
Dr.  Sarto  lights  an  acetylene  lamp,  and 
we  puff  a  few  minutes  in  silence.  Outside 
the  moon  rises  slowly,  and  you  settle  for  an 
evening  of  quiet  comfort.  But  Alvarado 
does  not  give  us  much  indulgence. 

"This  is  just  the  time  to  travel,"  he 
says;  "the  mules  go  best  by  night." 

So  the  mules  are  brought  around  and 
we  take  leave  of  the  Doctor's  household. 
Two  peons  on  horseback  join  us  now. 
They  drive  before  them  a  little  burro  with 
a  box  of  provisions  slung  on  each  side  of 
his  back.  To  the  tail  of  one  peon's  horse 
is  moored  a  spare  mule.  The  burro  runs 
free,  and  when  the  front  rider  has  nothing 
better  to  do  he  gives  the  animal  a  slash 
with  his  whip.  We  go  out  of  the  gate 
and  into  the  night. 

235 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

A  good  moon  is  shining,  but  the  sky 
is  so  overcast  that  one  can  barely  see 
the  path  ahead.  Alvarado  goes  on,  how- 
ever, without  hesitation.  The  forest  has 
thinned,  and  we  follow  now  an  irregular 
road,  now  cattle-paths,  riding  in  Indian 
file.  Twice  Alvarado  deserts  these  trails 
altogether,  and  for  a  mile  or  so  cuts  across 
a  wide  savanna  of  bunch  grass,  where 
shadowy  cattle,  stunted  bushes,  and  chap- 
paral-trees  appear  from  time  to  time  in 
the  wide  expanse  of  grass. 

Two  labouring  ox-teams  of  six  yoke 
are  passed,  drawing  a  high  cart  with 
wheels  set  7  feet  apart.  Peons  walking 
alongside  are  goading  on  the  unwilling 
cattle. 

After  about  three  hours  of  silent  riding 
the  dim  outlines  of  a  house  and  a  corral 
loom  ahead.  We  ride  up  and  dismount. 
The  peons  unload  the  animals  and  go  off 
to  picket  them  where  they  can  graze. 
We  enter  without  ceremony  a  large  dim 
236 


On  the  Llanos 

room  and  sling  our  hammocks  from  the 
beams  which  support  the  roof. 

"  No  mosquitoes  here,"  says  Alvarado ; 
"do  not  get  out  your  net." 

None  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  house 
stir.  After  removing  gaiters,  shoes,  and 
coat,  you  take  wearily  to  the  hammock. 
Towards  morning  you  open  one  eye  and 
reach  for  the  woollen  covija.  It  is  actually 
chilly.  Soon,  however,  you  are  awake  for 
good,  though  the  sun  has  just  risen. 
Cocks  are  crowing,  parrots  screeching, 
cows  lowing  somewhere  outside,  and 
people  moving  about  and  talking.  You 
look  around  and  finally  get  up. 

You  are  in  a  big  room  with  the  thatch  of 
the  roof  rising  to  an  acute  angle  above 
your  head.  At  the  doorway  this  is  cut 
away  like  a  bang  on  a  child's  forehead,  but 
along  the  rest  of  its  length  the  roofing 
comes  down  shaggily  to  within  about 
5  feet  of  the  ground.  The  stalks  of  the 
palms  used  in  thatching  are  laid  in  regular 

237 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

ranks  over  beams  and  are  held  together 
with  fibres.  Not  a  nail  is  used.  The 
sapling  lattice  framework  forming  the  sides 
of  this  big  central  room  leave  it  open  to 
every  breath  of  air.  The  kitchen,  at  one 
end,  is  enclosed  up  to  2  feet  under  the 
roof  with  wattle  and  thatch,  and  the 
owner's  bedroom  at  the  end  of  the  casa 
opposite  the  kitchen  is  completely  enclosed 
in  the  same  way.  The  floors  are  of  clay, 
stamped  hard  and  irregularly  laid,  giving 
miniature  mountains  and  valleys — an 
ideal  battle-field  for  a  child's  lead  soldiers. 

Of  furniture,  there  are  in  the  centre  room 
only  a  table  and  a  chair,  hammocks  in  the 
bedroom,  in  the  kitchen  a  few  pots,  a 
wooden  trough,  and  a  coffee-can.  On  the 
walls  of  the  living-room  a  couple  of 
muzzle-loading  guns,  a  machete,  and  some 
old  saddlery  complete  the  inventory. 

The  owner,  Pedro  Cristine  Praga,  of 
mixed  Indian  and  Spanish  blood,  is  a 
typical  small  proprietor.  He  is  slenderly 
238 


On  the  Llanos 

built,  with  a  heavy  moustache  and  side 
whiskers.  His  wife  is  much  older-look- 
ing and  shows  the  wear  of  work.  His 
daughter,  about  seventeen,  is  quite 
comely,  with  great  dark  eyes.  So  are 
also  the  two  half-grown  boys  and  the 
two  little  "  muchachos,"  Juan  and 
Anastasia. 

The  women  shuffle  about  in  their 
sandals — alpargatas — preparing  breakfast. 
Coffee  is  made  by  pouring  hot  water 
several  times  through  a  coffee-bag. 
Some  cheese  and  cassava  bread  are  laid 
out  for  us.  Fried  eggs  and  milk  fresh 
from  the  cow  complete  the  repast. 
After  breakfast  the  girl  goes  to  a  bunch 
of  dried  tobacco  leaves  in  a  corner, 
rolls  herself  a  cigar,  and  lights  up. 
You  get  her  to  make  you  one  also. 
It  is  shaped  like  a  diseased  cheroot, 
but  is  not  bad  to  smoke. 

After  a  short  stay  the  animals  are 
brought  up  and  we  mount  and  go  on, 

239 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

so  as  to  travel  as  much  as  possible 
while  it  is  still  cool.  We  are  on  a 
fairly  elevated  plateau  now,  seared  by 
precipitous  gullies,  whose  coarsely  sanded 
sides  are  dark  red.  Down  in  these 
arroyos  the  thickets  grow  together  into 
a  jungle  of  trees,  creepers,  bamboo,  and 
cactus.  The  water  brings  dense  vegeta- 
tion all  along  its  path,  while  on  the  flat 
sandy  plateau  nothing  is  met  for  long 
distances  save  bunch  grass  and  the 
gnarled  chapparal-trees. 

Through  this  we  travel  mile  after 
mile,  following  dubious-looking  paths 
among  the  bunch  grass.  The  red  sand- 
stone formation  and  sharp  peaks  and 
gullies  give  place  to  occasional  ledges  of 
granite,  strewn  with  boulders,  thickets 
growing  up  at  times  around  the  rocks. 
The  grass  is  very  coarse  and  tufted. 
The  cattle  we  sometimes  pass  are  thin 
and  small.  Towards  noon  the  heat  has 
become  intense. 
240 


On  the  Llanos 

"  Hace  mucho  calor,"  you  gasp. 

"We  are  near  the  place  for  a  halt/' 
says  Alvarado  consolingly. 

The  peons  lash  the  burro  along  behind 
us,  and  the  mules  need  to  be  encouraged 
with  the  barbed  espuelas  every  few  feet. 
At  last  a  brown  adobe  house,  with  a 
small  banana  plantation  behind,  appears 
out  in  the  bare  llanos.  We  ride  up, 
slide  off  our  mules,  and  walk  into  the 
centre  room,  while  the  peons  unload  the 
animals  and  bring  in  the  provisions. 

This  house  is  built  on  the  same  plan 
as  that  of  the  peasant  proprietor  of  last 
night,  save  that  the  open  lattice-work 
is  plastered  over  with  adobe  and  every- 
thing is  shut  in  and  correspondingly 
dark  and  stuffy.  We  are  welcomed  by  a 
little  old  crinkly-haired  Zambo  woman 
wearing  smoked  spectacles  and  nearly 
blind.  Alvarado  greets  her  with  his 
usual  courtesy  and  guides  her  to  the 
kitchen,  where  she  and  another  woman 
R  241 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

prepare  coffee.  About  half  an  hour  later 
lunch  is  ready.  It  consists  of  a  big 
meat  stew,  in  which  plantains,  a  yellow 
vegetable  with  a  green  skin  like  a  frog's, 
a  white  fibrous  vegetable  looking  like  a 
potato,  and  some  rice  swim  round 
together.  Cheese,  more  coffee,  and  some 
of  our  preserved  milk  round  out  this 
repast — el  almnerzo. 

Chickens  in  numbers  are  running  about 
underfoot,  including  one  curious  breed 
called  "grifo,"  the  black  feathers  of  which 
stick  out  at  right  angles.  There  is  also 
a  sort  of  white  bird,  like  a  pullet,  but 
longer  and  thinner,  and  a  big-headed 
sun-bittern  which  catches  and  eats  flies. 

We  hang  up  our  hammocks  and  pre- 
pare to  sit  under  cover  until  the  sun  is 
lower,  for  it  is  now  torrid  outside,  and 
hot  even  under  the  cover  of  the  house. 
Alvarado  stretches  himself  out  comfort- 
ably and  talks. 

"This  road  to  San  Jos£  is  safe  enough," 
242 


On  the  Llanos 

he  says ;  "  here  all  are  friends  and  rela- 
tions, for  our  family  and  the  Perez  and 
the  Velazquez  have  been  on  the  land  for 
centuries,  but  beyond,  in  Paragua,  it  is 
bad — un  pais  malo.  Once  I  went  far  into 
Paragua  to  look  at  some  balata  forests. 
The  place  had  a  bad  name,  but  I  knew 
of  the  wealth  people  get  with  balata.  A 
man  who  had  been  there  offered  to  guide 
me — an  Indian  with  a  big  machete-scar. 
Nobody  in  San  Jose  knew  him,  but  I 
hired  him,  got  the  mules,  and  started. 
We  travelled  for  two  weeks.  Then  one 
day  we  stopped  at  a  little  rancho  to  eat. 
I  noticed  that  the  guide  said  something 
secretly  to  the  man  of  the  house,  whose 
looks  I  did  not  like. 

"A  little  farther  on  I  saw  my  Indian 
looking  to  right  and  left  and  touching 
his  hat  with  his  hand.  We  were  going 
through  a  very  thick  forest,  and  I  became 
suspicious  in  an  instant.  I  drew  my 
revolver  and  aimed  at  him. 

243 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  *  Call  your  friend  who  is  in  those 
bushes/  I  said. 

"  He  called  '  Ramon/  and  the  man 
came  out  with  a  lasso  in  his  hand.  I 
aimed  the  revolver,  and  told  my  Indian 
to  tie  him  to  a  tree. 

"  Their  scheme  was  to  lasso  me  and 
rob,  and  probably  kill  me.  Many  tra- 
vellers had  disappeared  in  Paragua.  But 
I  was  in  a  bad  position,  for  I  did  not 
know  the  way,  and  the  nearest  town  was 
40  miles.  So  I  rode  with  the  guide  in 
front  of  me  and  the  pistol  at  his  back 
for  30  miles.  Then  I  could  see  the 
road.  I  tied  him  to  a  tree  with  many 
knots  and  rode  on  quickly. 

"The  Jefe  Civil  was  in  the  town,  and 
he  sent  and  got  the  Indian.  He  con- 
fessed he  had  meant  to  rob  me,  and 
they  found  that  he  had  murdered  other 
travellers.  So  they  shot  him  and  his 
partner.  It  was  a  close  escape.  But 
here  it  is  all  right,  save  in  time  of 
244 


On  the  Llanos 

revolution,  when  thieves  and  soldiers  are 
all  about." 

We  slap  at  the  flies  and  wait  for  the 
heat  to  diminish.  About  four  o'clock  the 
mules  are  brought  out  and  we  start  off 
once  again.  It  is  still  chokingly  hot,  and 
the  miles  of  savanna  spread  out  un- 
brokenly  in  the  glare.  Now  and  then 
granite  rocks  and  thickets  are  passed,  and 
far  ahead  a  mountain  range,  the  Parida, 
is  dimly  outlined. 

A  few  birds  are  flying  among  the  rare 
chapparal.  On  one  bush  is  perched  an 
oripopa,  a  sort  of  small  vulture,  so  tame 
that  we  pass  it  30  feet  away,  and  an  occa- 
sional zamuro,  or  turkey-buzzard,  wheels 
in  the  sun  far  overhead. 

Clouds  of  the  purest  white,  in  great 
rolls  like  mountains  of  billowy  cotton,  are 
heaped  in  the  pale  blue  of  the  sky.  Some 
are  distant,  some  seem  so  close  that  one 
could  almost  touch  them.  The  sun  sinks 
lower  and  lower.  It  tinges  now  the 

245 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

under  side  of  the  clouds,  and  flushes  to 
deepest  crimson  the  whole  mass  along  the 
western  horizon.  On  the  east  a  thunder- 
storm is  brewing,  and  the  clouds  are  iron- 
grey.  Now,  in  paler  reflex,  the  splendour 
of  the  west  steals  over  them  too.  The 
far-off  shower  shows  like  a  broad  band 
of  rose,  while  north  and  south  the  clouds 
every  moment  become  darker.  A  few 
minutes  longer  the  glory  of  the  sunset 
lasts.  Then  almost  at  once,  like  a  curtain, 
falls  the  night. 

With  the  last  light  of  the  dying  day 
we  ford  a  river  bordered  by  great  dark- 
green  trees  and  palms,  skirt  a  banana 
plantation,  pass  a  chapparal-trunk  corral 
and  enter  the  grounds  of  Sefior  Ber- 
mudez,  a  cousin  of  Alvarado. 

Senor  Bermudez,  driven  out  by  an  early 
Venezuelan  revolution,  was  for  many  years 
a  resident  of  Trinidad.  But  there  he 
met  business  reverses,  so  he  has  recently 
returned  and  bought  this  estate.  The 
246 


On  the  Llanos 

senor  and  his  wife  welcome  us  to  a 
home  which  is  a  duplicate  of  Dr. 
Sarto's,  save  that  it  is  more  poorly 
equipped.  The  peasant's  rough  plenty  of 
yesterday  is  absent  here.  Life  is  evidently 
a  hard  struggle  for  the  old  man  and  his 
wife  and  two  grown  daughters.  He  has, 
however,  the  tradition  of  Spanish  hos- 
pitality, and  offers  his  best  entertainment 
and  a  corner  of  the  porch  for  the  ham- 
mocks. 

Senor  Bermudez  has  a  sample  of  tobacco 
from  a  valley  some  distance  to  the  west- 
wards which  he  believes  to  be  as  good 
as  the  best  Cuban.  It  takes  more  of  an 
expert  than  you  are  to  pass  judgment. 

11 1  had  some  cigars  made,"  he  recounts, 
"and  got  a  Partagas  band  put  around 
them.  I  gave  a  box  to  Senor  Antonella, 
who  is  one  of  the  gourmets  of  Port  of 
Spain,  and  he  said  they  were  particularly 
good  cigars.  He  was  very  angry  when 
we  told  him  they  came  from  Venezuela, 

247 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

but  he  had  to  allow  they  were  fine 
smoking." 

We  are  lit  in  to  dinner  by  a  single 
flickering  candle.  The  poor  light  throws 
on  to  the  dark  walls  shadows  of  gigantic 
gestures  and  heads  with  enormous  features. 
It  is  weirdly  fascinating.  From  time  to 
time,  when  some  one  turning  a  little 
presents  his  profile  to  the  trembling 
yellow  flame,  a  huge  hand  lifts  some- 
thing like  a  pronged  pitchfork  up  to  a 
mouth  which  opens  like  the  gullet  of  a 
monster.  It  is  an  eerie  dinner,  and,  as  we 
have  been  many  hours  in  the  saddle,  you 
soon  accept  the  hospitality  of  the  rafters. 

You  sleep,  however,  with  a  certain 
difficulty.  Two  geese,  early  in  the  night, 
come  to  roost  on  the  rail  near  your  head, 
and  hiss  to  the  world  in  general  before 
finally  retiring.  A  pig  makes  an  investi- 
gation of  your  shoes.  Sundry  chickens, 
which  should  have  roosted  long  ago,  come 
in  clucking  anxiously.  Cocks  crow  to 
248 


On  the  Llanos 

the  moon  and  the  stars  all  through  the 
night.  An  uneasy  cow  in  the  corral 
near  by  utters  a  periodic  "  moo." 

At  dawn  you  are  definitely  awakened 
by  Alvarado.  You  find  everything  packed 
but  your  hammock.  One  of  Senor  Ber- 
mudez's  daughters  has  a  cup  of  black 
coffee  ready,  and  you  are  very  soon  in 
the  saddle. 

"Adios,  sefior,"  the  ladies  call  to  you. 
Alvarado  and  Sefior  Bermudez  touch 
hands  to  shoulders  and  our  cavalcade 
starts. 

"We  will  breakfast  at  San  Jose,"  says 
Alvarado. 

The  llanos  become  more  rolling  as  we 
advance  and  the  rocky  thickets  more 
numerous.  The  grass  seems  better.  It 
is  dense,  and  in  some  places  it  has  lost 
its  clumpy  character  and  is  all  one  sway- 
ing sward,  "como  un  mar  de  yarbas," 
like  Humboldt's  "sea  of  grass."  We  pass 
many  little  watercourses,  whose  presence 

249 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

can  be  discovered  a  long  way  off  by  the 
palm-trees  which  follow  them  down.  An 
occasional  lagoon  is  seen.  We  skirt  one 
whose  soft  border  is  churned  by  the 
cattle  into  a  bumpy  morass,  A  solitary 
white  crane  is  standing  sentry  over  it. 
A  palm  glade  is  left  behind  and  a  boulder- 
covered  hill-slope.  The  Parida  Mountain 
Range  is  nearing  us  ahead. 

"This  is  my  land,"  says  Alvarado,  and 
his  eyes  light  with  the  pleasure  of  a 
home-coming. 

We  ride  a  couple  of  miles  farther  to 
where  the  trail  divides.  The  peons  and 
the  burro  are  behind.  Alvarado  dis- 
mounts and  lays  twigs  from  a  chapparal- 
tree  across  one  of  the  trails. 

"  Thus  the  peons  will  know  which  path 
to  take/'  he  explains. 

A    half    hour    farther    on    we    descend 
into   a    hollow    and    reach    a    cattle-pond 
with   lofty  trees   around   it.     Beyond,  we 
climb  back  onto  the  upland. 
250 


On  the  Llanos 

"  Nearly  there,"  calls  our  host  eagerly. 

A  barbed-wire  fence  appears  presently, 
and  this  we  skirt  for  another  mile.  Then 
a  clump  of  big  dark-green  mango-trees 
arises,  and  a  chapparal-wood  corral,  and  a 
long,  low,  thatched  house.  A  boy  runs 
forward  and  lets  down  the  bars  and  we 
ride  in. 

A  strong-looking,  much-tanned  youth 
of  about  eighteen  comes  up  and  affection- 
ately salutes  Alvarado. 

"  My  son  Carlos,"  he  is  introduced. 
We  walk  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  portico. 
Two  ladies  with  sallow  waxen  com- 
plexions in  the  now  familiar  white  shape- 
less dresses  appear  from  inside.  One  is 
Senora  Alvarado,  the  other  an  orphan  girl 
whom  they  have  taken  into  the  family 
without  any  bond  of  relationship  or 
obligation.  Carlos  tells  you  that  he  has 
spent  two  years  at  school  in  Trinidad. 
He  speaks  some  English.  The  rest  of 
the  family  know  only  Spanish. 

251 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

While  breakfast  is  being  prepared 
Alvarado  gets  out  the  gifts  which  he  has 
bought  in  Bolivar  for  his  family.  There 
are  boxes  of  scented  soap  for  Senora 
Alvarado,  a  brooch  for  the  girl,  a  pair 
of  knitted  blue  socks  for  the  two-year-old 
baby,  a  tin  trumpet  for  the  six-year-old 
muchacha,  and  a  new  necktie  for  Carlos. 
The  recipients  are  all  delighted,  and  every- 
thing is  spread  out  on  the  table. 

The  almuerzo  comes  on  in  due  time- 
coffee  with  fresh  milk,  fried  eggs,  and 
cassava  bread.  You  are  not  deficient  in 
appetite  nor  are  you  averse  to  a  siesta, 
in  the  heat  of  the  day,  after  break- 
fast. The  hammocks  are  hung  on  the 
porch. 

Lying  in  them  lazily,  you  can  follow 
the  parrots  screaming  in  the  mango-tree 
overhead.  Half  a  dozen  vultures  are 
perched  on  the  stockade  of  the  corral, 
watching  a  sick  calf  with  sinister  patience. 
A  peacock,  with  much  whirring  of  plumes, 
252 


On  the  Llanos 

is  displaying  his  charms  to  an  absolutely 
indifferent  white  pullet,  while  the  neglected 
pea-hen,  with  one  fledgling,  is  quietly 
picking  up  a  living  for  the  family  in 
another  portion  of  the  garden.  Down  by 
the  kitchen  to  the  left  a  sow,  followed  by 
half  a  dozen  pink  pigs,  is  rooting  beneath 
a  lime-tree.  A  flock  of  blackbirds  wheels 
in  the  sky  and  passes.  Guinea-fowl  and 
chickens  wander  up  and  down  the  piazza. 
A  tiger-dog  comes  and  pokes  his  nose 
into  your  hand.  A  white  turkey  gobbles 
in  emulation  of  the  peacock. 

On  the  adobe  railing  in  front  of  you 
is  a  row  of  saddles,  while  bridles,  sur- 
cingles and  straps  are  hanging  on  the 
posts.  The  wall  behind  is  pasted  up  with 
advertising  lithographs  of  girls'  heads, 
amid  which  is  a  cartoon  of  a  man  who 
sold  on  credit  when  he  should  have  sold 
for  cash.  A  religious  calendar,  giving 
the  names  of  the  Saints  to  whom  each 
day  in  the  year  is  sacred,  occupies  a  promi- 

253 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

nent  place,  and  chromos  of  the  Venezuelan 
Presidents  "dado"  the  gallery.  Close 
beside  the  hammock  are  slung  big  gourds 
that  hold  a  reserve  of  drinking-water  and 
a  porous  jug  which,  being  always  damp, 
keeps  cold  a  supply  for  immediate  require- 
ments. Just  under  the  thatch  are 
suspended  the  skulls  of  eleven  jaguars 
shot  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  ranch. 

At  about  the  end  of  the  siesta  a  well- 
set-up  figure  in  white  rides  up  to  the  yard 
gate.  He  is  welcomed  by  the  family  and 
introduced  to  you — Dr.  Eduardo  Velaz- 
quez, the  senor  to  whom  the  Presidente 
has  given  you  a  note. 

The  Doctor  is  about  thirty  years  old, 
and  is  tanned  a  dark  brown  by  constant 
riding  in  the  torrid  sun.  A  heavy  mous- 
tache covers  strong  white  teeth ;  his  air 
is  alert  and  keen.  He  has  studied  medi- 
cine for  two  years  in  Paris,  but  on  the 
death  of  his  father  last  year  came  out  to 
manage  the  family  estates.  He  is  a 
254 


On  the  Llanos 

nephew  of  Alvarado,  and,  owing  in  a  large 
measure  to  his  business  capacity,  has 
assumed  the  management  of  his  ranch 
also.  He  receives  by  the  hand  of  friends 
passing  from  Bolivar  the  French  medical 
journals  and  the  Caracas  "  Heraldo." 
Medicine  he  practises  to  some  extent  still, 
but  mostly  on  the  farm  animals,  which 
assuredly  need  it. 

We  go  out  to  look  at  a  small  herd  of 
horses  that  his  peons  have  driven  in  from 
the  savanna.  Carlos  brings  along  a  bottle 
of  some  brown  creosote  tincture.  Horse 
after  horse  has  to  be  treated  in  the  ears 
and  groin  for  "garrapata,"  little  ticks 
which  fatten  on  blood,  swell  to  a  full 
quarter  of  an  inch  or  more,  and  burst, 
distributing  a  numberless  progeny  which 
have  grown  within  their  body.  A  colt 
has  some  bone  disease  that  prevents  it 
from  rising  to  its  feet.  One  mare  has  a 
cancer  which  the  Doctor  has  unsuccessfully 
operated  upon.  Others  have  raw  sores 

255 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

here  and  there.  Truly  the  cattleman's  life 
in  Venezuela  is  not  easy. 

The  River  Carapo  is  a  mile  away  from 
the  house.  A  swim  is  suggested  by 
Carlos.  Our  steeds  are  saddled  and 
brought  around,  and  we  ride  down  to  a 
gap  in  the  thickets  which  line  the  river, 
where  a  gravel  beach  stretches  just  below 
a  deep  pool. 

"  There  are  no  crocodiles  here,  but  some- 
times we  get  electric  eels,"  you  are  told. 

The  sport  is  so  refreshing  that  the  after- 
noon passes  all  too  soon. 

As  the  shadows  are  lengthening,  you 
ride  back  to  the  house  among  the  mango- 
trees,  as  cool  and  comfortable  as  if  you 
were  on  the  plains  of  the  Dakotas  rather 
than  nine  degrees  north  of  the  Equator. 
Indeed,  it  would  seem  that  the  heat  of  the 
Tropics  is  by  no  means  the  terror  it  is 
pictured.  Unless  one  is  in  a  hot  and 
stuffy  room,  or  on  a  pitch  lake,  or  in  a 
city  where  the  buildings  absorb  heat,  he  is 
256 


On  the  Llanos 

comfortable  everywhere  save  under  the 
direct  rays  of  the  sun.  And  at  no  time 
do  you  find  it  worse  than  some  of  the 
bad  days  in  New  York.  The  Torrid  differs 
from  the  Temperate  Zone  not  so  much  in 
having  a  greater  extreme  of  heat,  as  in 
having  warm  weather  all  the  year  round. 
The  nights  are  cool,  and  here  at  San  Jose 
the  woollen  comja  is  needed  always  before 
morning. 

The  household  at  Alvarado's  rises  at 
dawn.  The  milking  of  the  cows  is  the 
first  duty.  A  chorus  comes  from  them 
and  their  calves  in  the  mists  of  the  early 
day.  The  sound  is  like  the  groaning  of 
a  great  suffering  host. 

"  Comme  le  champs  de  bataille  de  Wa- 
gram,  dans  la  derniere  acte  de  1'Aiglon," 
Velazquez  expresses  it.  The  calves  are 
kept  in  one  pen,  the  cows  in  another. 
As  each  cow's  turn  comes  to  be  milked  her 
calf  is  let  join  her  for  a  moment,  then  it 
is  pulled  away  by  main  strength  and  held 
s  257 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

until  the  milking  is  accomplished.  These 
animals  are  the  descendants  of  the  cattle 
brought  over  by  the  Spaniards  at  the  time 
of  the  Conquest.  Almost  no  new  blood 
has  been  brought  in  since,  and  as  no  care 
has  been  taken  in  breeding,  here,  where 
the  grass  is  not  particularly  good,  the 
cows  are  rangy  and  thin,  and  give  but 
little  milk. 

A  wild  bull  is  to  be  slaughtered  in  your 
honour  for  fresh  meat.  Early  in  the 
morning,  after  he  has  been  driven  near 
the  house  and  cornered,  a  peon  has  ridden 
up  with  the  raw-hide  lasso  fast  to  the 
horse's  tail  and  has  caught  the  victim. 
He  stands  now  lashed  to  a  tree  by  the 
many  turns  of  the  raw  hide  around  his 
horns.  A  savage  look  is  in  his  eyes. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  a  keen  -  eyed, 
leather-skinned  vaquero  lassos  the  bull's 
front  feet  and  throws  him.  Then  Dr. 
Velazquez  with  one  dexterous  stab  cuts 
an  artery  in  the  throat.  The  ill  -  omened 
258  ' 


On  the  Llanos 

buzzards  sit  in  the  trees  around  and  coldly 
wait.  Without  staining  his  white  suit  the 
Doctor  flays  the  head  and  one  leg,  then 
leaves  the  rest  to  the  vaquero  and  a  young 
Indian.  The  ribs  are  slashed  away  and 
roasted  on  the  end  of  a  spit  over  a  slow 
fire  for  our  dinner.  The  rest  of  the  flesh 
is  cut  into  strips  a  half-inch  thick  and 
hung  on  a  rack  to  cure  in  the  hot  sun. 
This  makes  the  tough  desiccated  beef  one 
gets  throughout  this  country. 
M  Everything  we  eat  at  San  Jos6  is  raised 
on  the.  ranch  or  near  by — coffee,  sugar, 
cassava  bread,  milk,  meat,  beans,  mangoes, 
papoi,  bananas,  plantains,  tobacco.  It  is 
wonderful  what  a  small  area  of  ground 
will  supply  an  abundance  of  food.  Accord- 
ing to  Von  Humboldt,  one  acre  of  bananas 
will  feed  twenty  times  as  many  as  will 
an  acre  of  wheat,  and  bananas  go  on 
bearing  year  after  year  without  cultivation. 
Nature  here  is  very  close  at  hand. 
Every  morning  you  shake  out  your  shoes 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

lest  a  scorpion  has  nested  there.  Once  you 
find  beside  them  a  poisonous  lizard,  lar- 
garaba.  The  domestic  animals  are  under 
your  very  feet.  Bats  fly  around  in  the 
house  and  hang  from  the  thatch.  Rats 
run  about  under  the  end  room  where  the 
stores  of  rice  and  beans  and  the  Doctor's 
medicine  chests  are  kept.  Parrots  and 
blackbirds  swarm  in  the  trees  outside, 
and  here  nest  the  little  birds  that  give 
warning  of  serpents. 

Near  the  house  is  a  hill  of  those 
strangely  civilized  communities,  the  para- 
sol ants.  For  200  feet  you  trace  their 
line  of  march,  one  rank  going  to  the 
nest  carrying  fragments  of  leaves,  which 
fall  back  over  their  bodies  as  if  the 
creatures  were  shading  themselves  from 
the  sun.  These  colonies  have  been  com- 
pared to  Sir  Thomas  More's  "  Utopia," 
or  to  the  ideal  socialism.  All  work  in  the 
hill-hive — the  big  ants,  nearly  half  an  inch 
long,  provided  with  formidable  jaws,  and 
260 


On  the  Llanos 

the  little  ones,  no  bigger  than  gnats.  Each 
carries  the  burden  it  can  bear.  All  are 
nourished  by  the  fungus  which  grows 
upon  the  masticated  leaves  planted  inside 
the  nest.  But  the  individual  is  nothing. 
The  wounded  ones  are  let  struggle  where 
they  lie,  the  procession  going  on  past  and 
over  them  indifferently.  Toil,  not  life,  is 
the  goal  of  the  hill-hive,  and  the  toil  never 
stops. 

A  hunting-party  is  arranged  to  start  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  and  camp 
near  a  group  of  hills  on  the  edge  of  the 
savanna.  Two  ancient  Winchesters  are 
at  the  casa,  and  Velazquez  has  a  38- 
calibre  revolver.  A  machete  for  the  peon 
who  will  accompany  us  completes  the 
outfit. 

We  ride  off  to  the  eastward  with  a  pack 
of  seven  "  peros  tigreros  "  trotting  behind. 
Nominally  these  dogs  are  for  hunting 
jaguar.  Actually,  they  will  chase  nearly 
anything.  An  hour  before  we  start  they 

261 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

kill  at  the  foot  of  the  banana  plantation 
a  rabbit,  which  is  promptly  consigned  to 
the  family  larder. 

The  pack  is  a  curiously  mixed  one ; 
three  dogs  are  of  the  true  "tigrero"  type, 
brindled  grey  with  slanting  eyes.  But 
the  best  dog  is  a  black,  El  Negro,  with 
no  class  at  all  in  his  looks  and  one  eajr 
chewed  off.  There  are  two  white  and 
grey  "  pintos  "  and  one  brown  brute,  small 
and  long  like  a  dachshund,  with  hanging 
bloodhound  ears.  The  pintos  are  just 
puppies,  and  ever  and  anon  they  get  stuck 
on  thorns  and  make  the  forest  ring  with 
their  woes. 

About  two  hours  of  riding  from  the 
casa  brings  us  to  a  grove  of  chapparal 
at  the  foot  of  a  rocky  thicket-grown  hill. 
A  pool  of  water  girded  with  palm-trees 
is  alongside.  We  decide  to  camp  here. 
The  mules  are  picketed  in  some  good 
grazing  ground.  While  the  peon  gathers 
wood  for  a  fire,  including  a  reserve  supply, 
262 


On  the  Llanos 

which  he  carefully  covers  with  palm 
fronds  against  a  rain  which  seems  immi- 
nent, we  stretch  our  hammocks  between 
the  trees.  The  mosquito  bar,  which  has 
not  been  unfolded  so  far,  is  now  opened 
out  and  drawn  into  place.  As  a  protec- 
tion against  the  shower,  a  rope  is  stretched 
above  the  net,  and  over  this  is  laid  the 
thick  covija,  which  makes  a  miniature  tent 
over  the  hammock. 

There  is  no  danger  from  jaguar  in  the 
night,  surrounded  as  we  are  by  dogs  and 
with  the  fire  burning.  But  there  is  a 
chance  that  a  bull  may  come  along  the 
cattle-path  and  give  your  hammock  a 
poke  for  good  luck.  This  is  one  of  the 
risks,  however. 

Having  fished  up  water  by  means  of  a 
horn  at  the  end  of  a  string,  an  equipment 
which  both  Velazquez  and  the  peon  carry 
in  their  saddle  pockets,  we  soon  make  a 
meal  of  coffee,  cassava,  and  cheese.  The 
coffee-grounds  are  later  allowed  to  drain 

263 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

for  an  hour  or  so,  and  just  before  going 
to  bed  we  have  the  second  brew,  called 
guarapo.  The  original  brew  was  cafe. 

It  is  a  warm,  moist  night,  whose  deep 
encircling  shadows  seem  full  of  murmur- 
ings  and  of  whispers.  Between  the  high 
trees  above  are  spaces  of  dense  blackness. 
An  odour  of  earth,  of  grasses,  a  scent  of 
woods  and  of  dead  branches,  is  in  the 
air.  Above  are  the  fitful  stars,  and  though 
no  breeze  stirs,  you  feel  around  you  the 
vague  palpitation  of  this  ocean  of  leaves. 
You  feel  lost,  at  bay,  surrounded  with 
dangers  under  this  living  mystery  a- 
tremble  everywhere.  You  fall  asleep  to 
this  deep  throb  of  the  jungle. 

In  the  morning  we  discuss  the  plan 
of  campaign.  "  Venedo  6  tigre — deer  or 
jaguar  ? "  is  the  first  question.  All  votes 
are  counted  for  jaguar. 

"  Now,"  says  Velazquez,  "  there  are  two 
ways  of  hunting  tigre.  One  is  safe  and 
easy,  but  it  is  hard  to  find  him  by  it. 
264 


On  the  Llanos 

The  other  is  very  difficult  and  dangerous, 
but  if  there  are  any  tigres  you  get  them. 
The  first  method  is  to  ride  around  the 
savanna  with  dogs  and  try  to  run  on 
a  trail.  The  dogs  chase  the  tigre  up 
a  tree,  and  you  station  yourself  about 
10  feet  away  and  shoot  it  in  the  eye.  The 
second  way  is  to  go  into  the  montana  to 
their  dens.  If  jaguars  are  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood they  will  be  there.  You  build 
a  fire  and  stand  in  front  of  the  hole. 
They  come  out  on  the  jump  and  you  have 
to  shoot  quick.  " Esta  los  llanos" — he 
points  to  the  level  savanna,  "y  esa  el 
monte"  he  points  to  the  jungle-covered 
hill  above. 

We  enter  the  montana.  The  peon, 
machete  in  hand,  leads  the  way  to  cut 
the  vines  and  creepers  where  they  are 
impassable.  In  a  few  minutes  you  are 
fighting  your  way  up  the  hill  through  the 
worst  jungle  you  have  ever  had  to  face, 
bar  none. 

265 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

The  Venezuelans  have  a  special  word 
for  these  tangled  forests  of  trees  and 
creepers,  "  los  bejucales."  Here  and  there 
are  trees  with  long  needles  like  thorns 
which  break  off  in  the  flesh.  On  the 
climb  you  grasp  branches  whose  upper 
surface  is  fitted  with  row  on  row  of  jagged 
triangular  teeth  like  a  shark's,  so  that 
even  a  monkey  cannot  climb  them.  Sabre 
cacti,  with  hook-shaped  thorns  along  the 
edge  and  a  fine  point,  grapple  and  pierce 
your  clothes.  Others  which  you  brush 
into  are  four-sided,  standing  upright  with 
sprays  of  needles  at  the  angles.  On  the 
rocks  grow  still  others  like  gigantic 
thistles,  white  on  top  with  a  little  red 
flower.  Vines  sweep  down  from  the  tree- 
tops  and  overhanging  rocks.  They  are 
so  many  entangling  ropes  with  which 
you  struggle  like  some  labouring  Gulliver 
while  tearing  your  hands  upon  the  fish- 
hook and  thorn  attachments.  Clumps 
of  young  bamboo  add  their  stubborn 
266 


On  the  Llanos 

spines  to  the  rest.  You  set  your  teeth 
hard,  breast  the  savage  resistance,  and 
press  forward. 

Boulders  line  the  way ;  between  them 
you  must  pick  a  precarious  way  as  best 
you  can.  Now  and  again  your  feet  stub 
against  a  rock,  and  being  entangled,  you 
fall  forward,  clutching  desperately  at  all 
in  reach.  In  places  the  ground  is  so 
steep  that  you  must  climb  on  hands  and 
knees.  The  dogs  will  not  stir  from  the 
path  you  make  to  hunt  these  thickets, 
but  follow  cringing,  with  bleeding  paws, 
whining  as  the  thorns  pierce  them.  Once, 
fortunately  in  a  more  open  place,  the 
guide  gives  a  cry  and  runs  a  score  of 
yards.  Before  you  can  understand  the 
reason,  four  hornets  have  stung  you  on 
forehead  and  temple.  A  cascabel  (rattle- 
snake) is  sighted  by  the  peon,  but  disap- 
pears quickly  into  the  brush.  Woodticks, 
(garrapatas)  are  on  your  arms  and  neck, 
burrowing  in.  The  sweat  pours  down 

267 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

your  forehead,  and  the  thick  khaki  of 
your  suit  is  drenched  with  it. 

At  last  we  see  a  cavern  under  a  great 
rock.  "Tigre,"  whispers  the  peon.  Guns 
ready,  we  tiptoe  up.  The  peon  pokes 
tenderly  with  a  long  stick.  We  are  braced 
to  receive  a  jaguar  coming  out  at  a 
spring.  Our  emotion  is  wasted,  however. 
The  dogs  come  and  sniff:  nothing  is  in 
the  den. 

We  move  along  the  base  of  the  cliff, 
poking  into  all  the  dens  we  find.  It  is 
heart-breaking  work.  The  peon  is  fear- 
lessly brave — "guapo."  He  goes  up  to 
every  hole  and  pokes  in  it  with  a  stick, 
as  well  as  leading  the  way  through  the 
brush.  He  is  a  silent,  thin-faced,  sinewy 
vaquero,  of  the  cowboy  breed  with 
whom  Bolivar  beat  the  Spaniards.  We 
accomplish  nothing.  We  poke  into  holes 
for  two  days,  riding  across  the  savanna 
from  mountain  to  mountain.  Several 
turtles  with  orange  spots  on  their  backs, 
268 


On  the  Llanos 

called  morocoi,  and  an  armadillo,  called 
caracal,  are  all  we  get. 

Once  we  see  the  zamuro  wheeling  about 
in  the  distance,  and  ride  a  couple  of  miles 
to  see  if  a  jaguar  has  killed  something 
there.  A  hundred  buzzards,  black,  re- 
pulsive, are  around  a  cow.  We  examine 
her,  but  there  is  not  a  wound.  Her  eyes 
only  have  been  pecked  out  as  the  first 
tit-bits  by  a  white  and  black  royal  vulture, 
on  whose  pleasure  the  rest  wait. 

"  Une  veille  vache  morte  d'amour,"  says 
Velazquez  disgustedly. 

The  peon  cuts  a  piece  of  the  cow's  leg 
for  the  dogs,  which  shamelessly  gnaw  the 
flesh,  for  with  raw  meat  they  are  fed 
without  scruple. 

The  vaquero  decides  finally  that  the 
tigres  must  be  in  the  deep  woods,  rather 
than  here  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
cattle-ranges  which  they  usually  haunt. 

On  the  third  day  out  we  camp  for  lunch, 
in  the  midst  of  which  a  rain  comes  on. 

269 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

For  two  hours  it  pours  in  torrents.  Every- 
thing we  have  is  wet  through.  A  gourd 
which  was  left  standing  to  catch  the  coffee 
drippings  is  full  to  the  brim.  The  dogs 
whimper  and  move  uneasily  from  place 
to  place.  El  Negro,  knowing  that  his 
hunting  ability  entitles  him  to  special 
privilege,  comes  and  curls  up  with  us 
under  a  dripping  couija. 

The  afternoon  sun  dries  us  out.  We 
sight  a  herd  of  deer  in  a  thicket  and 
bag  two.  Then  the  dogs  start  something 
which  we  run  down  and  find  to  be  an 
ant-bear.  It  has  taken  to  the  limb  of  a 
little  tree.  It  is  striking  at  El  Negro 
with  its  curved  claws,  and  is  hissing 
so  virulently  with  its  ridiculously  small 
mouth,  shaped  like  a  horse's,  that  the 
dogs  do  not  dare  go  near  it.  We  add 
it  to  our  bag. 

Farther  on,  just  as  we  have  picked  our 
way  across  the  boulder-strewn  bed  of  a 
branch  of  the  Carapo,  the  dogs  start  a 
270 


On  the  Llanos 

fox,  and  are  off  in  full  cry  back  across 
the  river.  There  is  a  beautiful  burst  for 
a  mile  or  more,  in  which  the  fox  doubles 
back  and  is  killed  a  hundred  yards  from 
where  he  started.  El  Negro  is  first  at 
the  death,  and  we  keep  the  tail  in 
souvenir. 

We  take  a  trip  to  the  land  of  "  The 
Lame  Senor,"  and  add  a  grey-eyed,  red- 
moustached  mestizo  and  a  piratical-looking 
Indian,  with  a  great  hooked  machete,  to 
the  guides  force,  bagging  another  deer  on 
this  land.  We  sleep  on  the  senors  porch 
while  the  Indian  strums  his  guitar  and 
the  mestizo  improvises  to  the  rattle  of 
the  maracas  gourds  a  song  about  a  mighty 
hunting. 

At  length,  after  a  week  of  it,  we  turn 
our  mules  back  towards  San  Jos6,  and 
come  trailing  in  about  dusk,  the  mules 
spent  with  fatigue  and  the  dogs  straggling 
home  in  single  file  behind  us. 

After  a  good  night's  rest  we  are  ready 

271 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

for  the  next  interest.  Dr.  Velazquez  goes 
with  you  to  the  woods  by  the  river,  to  point 
out  some  medicinal  plants  that  are  in  local 
repute.  On  the  way  he  points  out  the 
arestin,  that  curious  sensitive-plant  whose 
leaves  close  as  one  touches  it. 

After  some  scrambling  along  the  valley 
bottom  he  points  out  the  Cruseta  real, 
a  tree  with  light-brown  bark,  an  infusion 
of  which  has  the  same  effect  as  quinine. 
In  Venezuela  they  gather  the  bark,  boil 
it,  and  swallow  40  drops  of  the  liquid 
per  day.  Many  people  who  cannot  take 
quinine,  which  makes  them  spotted,  use 
this  Cruseta  real  for  fever.  Dr.  Velaz- 
quez believes  that  the  tree  is  not  the 
Bonplandia  trifoliata,  brewed  by  the  old 
monks  of  Angostura,  which  Von  Hum- 
boldt  noted  in  1799  as  being  good  for 
fever,  but  another  and  unknown  species. 

The  mora,  which  is  like  the  balata,  gives, 
when  its  bark  is  tapped,  a  milk  which  is 
antiseptic  and  good  for  ulcers.  This  is 
272 


On  the  Llanos 

applied  externally,  sometimes  diluted  with 
water. 

The  yagrumo  root  is  soaked  in  water 
and  drunk.  For  hemorrhages  the  bark 
is  scraped  and  put  onto  the  wound. 

The  courtesy  of  the  Alvarado  household 
is  exquisite.  They  notice  that  you  like  the 
fresh  milk,  and  without  a  word  of  comment, 
despite  the  small  quantity  secured  from 
the  reluctant  cows,  two  glasses  are  at  your 
place  every  meal.  Senora  Alvarado  sends 
a  peon  to  a  neighbour  10  miles  away  to  get 
a  loaf  of  a  creamy  sugar,  like  maple  sugar, 
called  alfondoque,  for  you  to  sample.  Carlos 
sees  that  your  heavy  riding-boots  are  un- 
comfortable for  use  around  the  house,  and 
gets  you  a  pair  of  light  alpargatas.  Every- 
body in  the  family  joins  in  to  help  polish 
up  your  raw  and  meagre  Spanish. 

Having    spent    ten   days   at   San   Jos£, 

you  plan  now  to  return  to  Bolivar.     You 

square  up  indebtedness  as  well  as  may  be 

by  giving  Velazquez  a  pair  of  binoculars, 

T  273 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Alvarado  a  watch,  and  Carlos  a  camera 
and  the  muchacha  a  silver  penknife.  Your 
hosts  supply  you  with  provisions,  delegate 
a  peon  as  escort,  and  with  affectionate 
farewells  start  you  on  your  outward  way. 

Four  days,  after  some  detours  and  halts 
for  shooting,  bring  you  nearly  to  Bolivar. 
A  six  hours'  forced  night-march  enables 
you  to  reach  Mannoni's  in  time  to  take 
a  shower-bath  and  sit  down  to  breakfast 
with  the  rest. 

"  No,  I  believe  that  freemasonry  is 
anti-Christian,"  M.  Mattey  is  saying  as 
you  enter. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  of  the  greatest 
possible  benefit  to  society  at  large," 
retorts  M.  Vicentini. 


274 


VII 

THE    "DELTA" 

HTHE  "  Delta"  is  scheduled  to  sail  for 
Port  of  Spain  in  five  days.  There 
may  be  a  delay,  because  the  "  Apure " 
has  got  stuck  on  a  sandbank  near 
Pedernales,  and  if  her  signals  are  seen, 
the  "  Delta"  must  steam  over  and  pull 
her  off. 

You  go  around  and  make  your  fare- 
wells to  the  Presidente,  giving  him  a 
Thermos  bottle  to  keep  his  coffee  hot 
overnight  and  receiving  a  photograph 
in  remembrance.  You  take  leave  of 
Santos  Palazzi,  getting  presented  with  a 
tiger-dog  and  a  jaguar  skin,  and  leaving 
your  rifle  as  a  partial  reciprocation. 
Dr.  Sartos  gives  you  a  comja.  It  is 

275 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

really  embarrassing  to  know  how  to  get 
square  with  all  these  kindly  people. 

You  go  down  with  Wadsworth  to  see 
how  his  engine  has  progressed.  Every- 
thing is  ready  for  the  assembling,  and 
the  work  will  be  done  on  schedule 
time.  Wadsworth  is  pleased  as  Punch, 
and  turns  over  the  engines  to  show 
you  how  well  they  function.  The 
Commandante  goes  for  another  dove- 
hunt  with  you,  and  this  time  some 
cranes  and  a  young  alligator  are  added 
to  the  bag. 

You  prepare  for  departure  by  getting 
out  custom  papers,  or  rather  Santos 
Palazzi  gets  them  out  for  you  and 
General  Navarro  rushes  them  through. 
The  papers  are  a  relic  of  the  time 
when  almost  everything  paid  an  export 
duty,  as  gold  still  does.  There  comes 
at  the  last  a  hitch,  or  at  least  a  halt, 
in  getting  the  baggage  on  board  the 
boat,  because  the  "  Delta,"  just  when  the 
276 


The  "Delta" 

passengers  are  expecting  to  have  their 
possessions  embarked,  goes  over  to  Sole- 
dad  to  load  cattle  and  returns  only  an 
hour  before  sailing-time.  Charlie,  whom 
Fitzgerald  has  left  here  with  his  launch, 
mounts  guard  lest  the  boat  slip  off 
without  one  passenger  or  his  luggage. 

At  length  the  "  Delta"  reappears  from 
across  the  river  and  toots  her  whistle. 
Most  of  the  townsfolk  have  come  to 
watch  her  off.  They  stream  down  across 
the  naked  earthen  bank  of  the  river 
to  the  water-line.  Friends  are  out 
in  force  to  speed  the  parting  guests. 
M.  Mattey  is  escorting  his  Cuban 
confrere,  who  leaves  by  this  boat. 
Senor  Aquatella  has  a  large  shipment  of 
balata.  The  American  Consul  is  anxious 
to  get  some  cigars  sent  up  from  Trini- 
dad, and  has  to  commission  the  Scotch 
engineer  to  bring  them  for  him. 

The  gang-plank  is  soon  thrown 
across,  and  porters  in  a  line,  like  para- 

277 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

sol  ants,  are  passing  in  with  bundles 
and  trunks  on  heads,  and  coming  out 
at  the  low  entrance  below-stairs. 
Covijas  and  saddlebags,  owned  by  the 
swarthy  Venezuelans  bound  for  San 
Felix  are  heaped  in  one  corner  of  the 
deck.  Cedar  chests,  palm-fibre  baskets, 
and  bundles  of  many  kinds  are  on 
their  way  'tween  decks,  where  a  large 
family  of  Trinidad  negroes  have  camped. 
Five  porters  carry  the  cumbersome 
equipment  of  the  English  tourist- 
saddle,  top-hat-case  and  all — to  the  cabin 
indicated  by  the  buxom  Trinidad  negress 
who  is  stewardess,  and  seems  to  manage 
all  the  men. 

The  deck  is  a  hubbub  of  porters  and 
passengers  of  every  shade  and  complexion. 
Some  are  embracing  each  other.  Some 
are  talking  excitedly.  More  are  looking 
on  stolidly.  A  crowd  are  opening  cham- 
pagne at  the  ship's  bar  in  honour  of  a 
German  merchant  who  is  retiring  for 
278 


The  "Delta" 

good  and  leaving  Venezuela — one  Herr 
Mtiller.  An  American  who  has  been  up 
country  getting  hold  of  a  balata  property, 
and  has  various  shadowy  concessions  of 
problematical  worth  which  he  is  taking 
to  New  York  to  realize  upon,  smokes  a 
big  Havana  in  company  with  a  swarthy 
cattle-rancher  from  the  llanos  near  Apure. 
The  dark-skinned  Jefe  Civil  of  San  Felix, 
Sefior  Pablo  Garcia,  is  on  the  deck,  stand- 
ing stiffly  up  and  ceremoniously  saluting 
his  friends,  while  beside  him  his  private 
secretary,  in  civilian  clothes  and  pointed 
yellow  shoes,  sabre  on  thigh  and  Win- 
chester in  hand,  listlessly  smokes  a 
cigarillo. 

A  warning  toot  and  the  shore-bound 
element  makes  precipitate  descent  to  the 
gang-plank.  They  stand  upon  the  dock 
and  begin  the  hand  and  handkerchief 
waving  sacred  to  all  boat-leaving.  A 
third  whistle  and  the  vessel  starts  on 
the  wide  sweep  which  will  face  it  down 

279 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

stream.  The  German  band  on  shore 
plays  wheezingly  "  Gloria  al  Pueblo 
Venezolano,"  and  with  the  white  flannels 
still  waving  us  their  "bon  voyage,"  we 
start  down  with  the  current,  the  City 
of  Bolivar  dropping  farther  and  farther 
behind,  its  cathedral  and  the  old  Spanish 
fort  fading  last  from  our  lingering  vision. 

The  English  tourist  is  first  to  break 
the  retrospective  charm.  He  is  grumbling 
his  troubles  into  the  ear  of  a  fellow-country- 
man who  has  been  manager  for  an  English 
syndicate  interested  in  a  mining  concession 
near  Callao. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  had  to  do  to 
get  out  of  this  beastly  country  with  my 
luggage?  I  had  to  buy  a  stamped  piece 
of  paper  at  the  Custom  House,  cost  50 
centimes.  The  inventory  had  to  be  made 
out  in  a  certain  form,  they  told  me,  but 
no  form  was  printed  on  the  stamped  paper. 
A  young  chap  at  the  Custom  House 
said  he  would  make  out  my  list  for 
280 


The  "  Delta  " 

5  bolivars.  But  I  wouldn't  pay  such  a 
sum,  so  I  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  had 
the  schedule  made  out  there.  Then  I  had 
to  go  to  a  hat-store  which  had  the  stamp- 
selling  concession  and  buy  a  one-bolivar 
stamp.  I  took  this  to  the  Custom  House, 
and  one  man  pressed  a  rubber  marker 
on  the  paper  and  another  signed  it.  I 
knew  intuitively  that  the  stamp  should 
have  been  cancelled  and  I  pointed  this  out. 
The  second  official  said  I  was  right,  they 
had  happened  to  miss  it.  He  opened  a 
penknife  and  stabbed  the  stamp.  Then 
I  took  the  document  to  still  another  place, 
and  the  Commandante  stamped  it  anew 
and  wrote  his  name  upon  it." 

In  one  corner  of  the  deck  the  Jefe 
Civil  is  talking  to  the  Commandante  of 
San  Felix,  the  jovial  banjo-player  who 
went  on  the  excursion  with  you  to  the 
Falls  of  the  Caroni.  They  are  discussing 
a  murder  which  has  taken  place  recently 
near  their  bailiwick.  It  was  all  on 

281 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

account  of  a  stolen  pig.  A  small  farmer 
had  some  goats  lifted  and  went  to  law 
about  the  matter,  but  the  thief  had  been 
acquitted.  When,  subsequently,  a  pig  also 
disappeared,  he  took  the  law  into  his  own 
hands,  and  on  the  report  of  his  little 
daughter,  loaded  his  shotgun  with  a 
couple  of  slugs,  lay  in  wait  for  his 
enemy,  and  killed  him. 

"  Too  many  thieves  go  unpunished," 
says  the  Commandante.  "  I  think  the 
man  should  be  let  off." 

The  Jefe  Civil,  who  will  be  the  judge 
unless  overruled  by  the  Presidente  at 
Bolivar,  is  discreetly  silent. 

"  It  was  curious  how  I  captured  that 
murderer,"  says  the  Commandante.  "  My 
mule  smelled  the  dead  man's  blood  as  I 
passed  the  body,  and  next  day,  seeing  the 
farmer  go  into  the  bushes,  rather  than 
come  up  and  speak  to  me  as  I  went  by, 
raised  my  suspicion.  I  noticed  it  was 
near  where  the  body  was  found." 
282 


The  "Delta" 

The  forest  is  waving  beside  the  broad, 
quiet  river,  by  which  one  can  penetrate 
three  thousand  miles  into  the  interior. 
The  vessel  is  gliding  quickly  down 
stream.  On  the  lower  deck  the  thickly- 
packed  cattle  stamp  and  low.  A  negro 
somewhere  is  strumming  a  guitar.  All 
sit  down  to  dinner  at  a  long  table.  The 
English  engineer  is  at  your  right  and 
the  retired  German  merchant  and  a  negro 
balata  trader  at  your  left. 

The  latter  has  secured  an  enormous 
concession  on  rubber-trees  in  the  interior 
of  Paragua,  and,  though  he  has  made  a 
fortune  at  the  business,  has  gotten  more 
now  than  he  can  handle.  He  is  going 
to  London  to  try  and  make  a  company 
to  take  over  his  property. 

There  is  no  discrimination  at  this 
festive  board  as  to  race,  or  colour,  or 
previous  condition  of  servitude.  Only 
one  per  cent,  of  the  Venezuelan  people  are 
recorded  as  pure  white,  and  in  the  most 

283 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

aristocratic  circles  the  black  of  Africa  is 
mixed  with  the  blue  of  Castile.  The 
most  common  mixture  is  white  and 
Indian,  of  which  two-thirds  of  the  in- 
habitants, the  mestizo,  are  composed. 
Mulattos  are  fairly  common,  and  Zambos, 
negro  and  Indian  half-breeds,  less  so. 
There  is  every  possible  permutation  of 
these  race  mixtures. 

The     English     engineer     between     the 
courses  tells  the  tale  of  the  Callao  Mine. 

"  About  1860  some  Yankees  from  Cali- 
fornia came  here  and  began  to  pan  gold. 
They  founded  the  Callao  Mine,  and  a 
French  company  was  organized  and 
bought  it.  After  a  few  years'  work  the 
company  became  insolvent,  and,  to  eke 
along,  paid  tradesmen  script  redeemable 
in  shares.  A  thousand  pesos'  worth  of 
shares  would  be  bought  then  for  50  pesos. 
The  great  vein  was  struck  shortly  after, 
and  for  years  shares  of  1,000  pesos  pro- 
duced 72,000  pesos.  One  Trinidad  negro 
284 


The  "Delta" 

boatman,  who  kept  a  cookshop,  sold  a 
few  shares  given  him  for  a  board  bill. 
He  is  to-day  one  of  the  rich  men  of 
Trinidad. 

"  In  1895  the  main  lode  was  lost.  No 
reserve  of  money  had  been  kept  to  explore 
with,  and  the  company  went  permanently 
bankrupt." 

The  German  trader,  Herr  Mtiller,  who 
is  going  back  to  the  old  country  to  finish 
his  days  in  quiet,  has  been  for  twenty 
years  in  Bolivar,  starting  as  clerk  with 
Blohm  &  Cie.  He  has  studied  the 
trade  of  the  country  with  characteristic 
German  thoroughness. 

"  Venezuela  is  a  country  enormously 
rich,  principally  in  coffee,  cocoa,  balata, 
rubber,  hides,  and  cattle.  Even  now  the 
balance  of  trade  is  in  her  favour — eighty 
million  dollars  of  exports  to  fifty  millions 
of  imports.  Guiana  has  a  population  of 
only  fifty  thousand — two  to  the  square 
mile — over  an  area  as  large  as  the  British 

285 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

Isles.  These  countries  are  nothing  to 
what  they  could  be.  The  llanos  will 
support  a  hundred  times  more  cattle  if 
only  they  are  bred  instead  of  neglected. 
Our  neighbour  speaks  of  the  Callao. 
There  are  other  mines  just  as  rich  if 
people  had  the  capital  to  work  them." 

We  adjourn  to  a  corner  of  the  deck 
and  light  up  some  Havana  cigarettes. 
The  owner  of  the  cattle  on  the  lower 
deck,  who  is  taking  them  to  Trinidad 
for  sale,  joins  us.  The  German  puts  to 
him  the  problem  of  stocking  the  llanos. 

11  You  talk  about  breeding  better  cattle," 
he  says.  "  I  know  all  about  that  busi- 
ness, but  what  good  does  it  do  me  if  I 
import  bulls  and  make  an  enclosure  and 
breed  good  cattle  ?  They  are  the  first  ones 
that  will  be  shot  by  the  next  revolution. 
If  the  cattle  range  wild  it  is  harder  to  steal 
them.  But  even  thus  the  insurrectos  got 
away  with  three  hundred  head  from  my 
estate  last  time. 
286 


The  "Delta" 

"And  such  ridiculous  laws!"  he  con- 
tinues. "  There  is  one  that  you  must 
not  kill  a  cow.  How  many  cows  have 
infectious  diseases  and  should  be  killed? 
There's  another  law  that  barbed  -  wire 
fences  should  have  seven  wires.  Don't  I 
know  how  many  wires  my  fences  should 
have  as  well  as  those  crooked  lawyers 
in  Caracas  ?  " 

"And  how  can  foreign  capital  come 
into  this  country  and  open  up  the  mines  ?  " 
chimes  in  the  engineer.  "You  ought  to 
see  our  costs.  A  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
a  ton  to  transport  goods  60  miles !  To 
get  out  of  the  country  I  have  to  secure  a 
permit  in  San  Felix  and  one  in  Bolivar 
too.  The  negroes  down  the  river  have  to 
hand  out  graft  for  every  time  they  move. 
Why,  the  carters  to  the  Callao  Mine  have 
to  pay  1 20  pesos  a  year,  a  tax  greater 
than  the  largest  sized  motor-car  pays  in 
England.  All  our  supplies  have  to  go  up 
to  Bolivar  first  and  then  be  brought  back 

287 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

to  the  mine.  A  narrow-gauge  railway 
from  San  Felix  would  open  out  the 
country.  Will  they  allow  it  ?  No.  Fifteen 
years  ago  a  route  was  planned  and  marked 
on  Guzman  Blanco's  map  as  'under 
construction/  They  say  the  railroad  must 
start  from  Bolivar. 

"  And  graft,  graft ! "  he  continues. 
"  Mining  machinery  is  free  of  duty  by  the 
Code,  which  is  ideal  on  paper.  But  you 
have  to  pay  the  Customs  first  and  then  get 
the  money  back.  A  miner  up  here  a  while 
ago  paid  four  hundred  dollars  in  duties, 
and  before  he  got  it  back  he  had  expended 
one  hundred  dollars  for  stamps  and  fees. 
Why,  up  at  Callao  we  send  telegrams 
instead  of  letters,  because  the  dispatch 
fees  go  to  the  salary  of  the  local  Comman- 
dante,  and  he  has  to  be  taken  care  of.  It 
is  all  right  so  long  as  you  spend  money 
in  Venezuela,  but  God  help  you  if  you 
make  any ! " 

"  But  this  Government  is  all  right," 
288 


The  "Delta" 

protests  the  American  promoter ;  "it  is 
safe  to  invest  here  now.  Of  course,  the 
officials  get  their  little  pickings  for  their 
trouble,  but  since  Venezuela  was  made  to 
give  up  all  that  money  after  the  Hague 
decision,  a  foreigner's  property  is  safe- 
Since  Gomez  has  become  President  trade 
has  increased  15  per  cent." 

"  That  is  because  it  was  nothing  during 
Matos's  Revolution  and  Castro's  troubles," 
interrupts  the  German.  "  But  those 
indemnities  hit  pretty  hard,  it  is  true.  The 
whole  Customs  receipts  are  less  than  four 
million  dollars,  and  nearly  two  and  a 
half  millions  go  to  the  indemnities  and  the 
foreign  debts." 

"They  will  not  let  capital  be  brought 
in  either,"  grumbles  the  English  traveller. 
"  I  had  an  idea  there  might  be  openings 
here  for  manufacturing,  and  I  looked  the 
situation  over.  Matches  you  buy  in 
Venezuela  for  20  cents  a  dozen  boxes, 
of  far  worse  quality  than  those  in  Trinidad, 
u  289 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

and  the  boxes  are  not  full.  At  Trinidad 
they  cost  10  cents,  and  that  is  dear  enough. 
But  can  you  start  a  factory  here  ?  Not 
much !  because  a  distinguished  official  in 
Caracas  owns  stock  in  the  match  factory 
which  makes  these  fosforos,  whose  heads 
fly  off  and  burn  your  clothes.  Salt  sells 
at  Bolivar  with  the  largest  official  discount, 
which,  by  the  way,  you  do  not  get,  for  a 
cent  and  a  fifth  a  pound.  At  Cura^oa  it 
is  quoted  at  three-tenths  of  a  cent.  But 
can  you  sell  salt  ?  Not  much !  It  is  a 
Government  monopoly.  The  distinguished 
official  in  Caracas  owns  three-fourths  of 
the  stock  in  this  steamer  company,  which 
has  the  concession  for  selling  salt.  And 
this  Compania  Fluvial  has  the  sole  right 
to  navigate  the  Macareo  passage.  Any 
competing  line  has  to  go  up  the  Pedernales 
passage  and  spend  twelve  hours  longer 
getting  to  Bolivar,  if,  indeed,  it  does  not 
run  onto  the  bar  and  stick  there  like  the 
'  Apure/ ' 

290 


The  "Delta9 

The  cattle  merchant  chimes  in:  "We 
want  a  man  like  Diaz."  He  shakes  his 
fist,  "With  a  sword!" 

The  American  promoter  protests  :— 

"We  do  not  want  a  machetero ;  we 
want  an  administrator  who  will  ally 
himself  with  capital.  The  Government 
would  become  good  if  capital  came  in  and 
people  had  work.  There  are  too  many 
guapos,  too  many  bravos" 

"  But  how  can  it  come?"  interrupts  the 
Englishman.  "Will  the  distinguished 
gentleman  in  Caracas  give  up  his  salt 
concession  and  the  matches  or  the  cigar- 
ettes, or  the  Orinoco  Navigation  Company, 
or  the  Maracaibo  steamers  ?  Where  can 
capital  go  ?  When  it  enters,  the  Govern- 
ment or  the  revolution  runs  off  with  it. 
You  have  a  mine  with  four  hundred  men. 
The  Presidente  sends  word :  '  There  is 
danger  of  a  revolution  ;  I  must  have  those 
men  for  my  army/  What  can  you  do  ? " 

The  promoter  is  bellicose. 

291 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  If  I  had  a  railroad  with  two  thousand 
four  hundred  men  I  would  arm  them  and 
fight  anybody  who  tried  to  take  them 
away,  Government  or  revolution.  The 
Asphalt  Company  at  Pitch  Lake  has  its 
men  armed  and  does  that." 

"  But  they  got  their  property  taken  away 
after  they  had  spent  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  to  help  Matos  beat  Castro,"  com- 
ments the  mine  manager. 

"Well,"  says  the  promoter,  "  did  not 
Castro  have  a  reason  to  take  their  lake 
away?  They  stole  it  in  the  first  place, 
anyway.  I  know,  because  I  took  part  in 
the  revolution  and  we  had  great  sums  of 
money.  A  British  war-vessel  stopped  me, 
but  when  the  officer  saw  my  papers  he 
let  me  through  ;  Castro  took  the  steamer 
line  away  from  the  Americans,  too.  They 
gave  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to  the 
revolution.  The  Yankees  would  have 
been  all  right  if  they  had  left  politics 
alone." 
292 


The  "Delta" 

The  German  grows  placative :  "This 
Government  is  not  so  very  bad.  It 
wouldn't  be,  that  is,  if  only  the  distin- 
guished official  you  mention  was  not  so 
interested  in  cattle.  He  will  be  in  an 
important  conference  with  foreign  repre- 
sentatives, when  a  servant  comes  and 
says,  '  The  old  cow  has  had  a  calf.'  Up 
he  jumps,  and  says,  '  Excuse  me/  and  does 
not  come  back  for  three  days.  He  is  just 
a  cattle-man." 

11  That  is  what  the  Venezuelan  people 
like,"  says  the  ranchman.  "Well,  I  hear 
up  Apure  way  there  may  be  trouble  any 
minute."  He  lowers  his  voice  mysteri- 
ously:  "The  Old  One  is  in  Colombia,  it 
is  said." 

"  Pish  !  "  says  the  promoter  ;  "  he  is  all 
eaten  up  with  tumours  and  is  in  the  Canary 
Islands." 

"Well,"  says  the  cattle  man,  "I  have 
been  told  by  our  agent  in  Trinidad  to 
keep  my  eyes  and  ears  wide  open." 

293 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  There  is  another,"  adds  the  promoter. 

"The  lame  one?" 

"Yes,  the  lame  senor.  The  most 
popular  man  in  Venezuela.  I  have  heard 
from  the  inside  that  he  is  to  be  Presi- 
dent when  there  is  the  next  trouble. 
There  will  be  an  intervention  by  the 
United  States  and  an  entirely  free  elec- 
tion, with  inspectors,  and  he  will  be 
elected,  and  he  is  an  absolutely  honest 
and  patriotic  man.  Twice  before  he 
could  have  been  President,  by  treachery, 
and  he  would  not.  I  should  like  to 
see  the  Presidente  of  the  State  of  Bolivar 
go  higher.  He  is  most  diplomatic.  He 
says,  'The  roads  are  my  monument." 

"  He  made  Gomez  President,"  adds 
the  German.  "You  know  Castro  was 
away  in  Paris,  and  he  sent  word  to  the 
Cabinet  to  proclaim  that  the  country 
needed  his  return.  One  of  the  Ministers 
offered  this  motion.  Then  the  General 
stood  up  and  said,  '  Is  Castro  to  treat  us 
294 


The  "Delta" 

as  children  who  cannot  run  the  country  ?  * 
And  Perez  said  the  same.  So  Castro  was 
not  recalled.  But  General  Telleria  took 
ship  next  day  to  the  United  States  and 
stayed  there  two  years.  He  is  a  good 
man." 

"  We  have  another  revolution  coming 
soon,  anyway,"  says  the  cattle-man.  "  One 
trouble  in  the  country  is  we  have  too 
many  officials,  and  they  change  always. 
Of  course,  it  is  necessary  to  reward  those 
who  have  fought  well,  so  what  else  can 
be  done  ?  I  have  seen  revolutions  start. 
Somebody  who  has  been  driven  out,  or 
who  has  influence  in  some  State,  will  get 
together  a  thousand  or  so  brave  fighters 
— g^lapos.  Other  men  in  the  district,  rest- 
less, or  with  a  grudge,  send  in  to  him 
and  say :  '  I  control  three  hundred  men. 
They  are  yours  if  I  can  be  Custom  House 
collector  of  San  Felix,'  or,  '  I  have  a 
hundred  ;  I  would  be  Prefect  of  Police  of 
Barcelona.'  The  leader  is  glad  to  get 

295 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

allies  and  pledges  the  posts.  These  pro- 
spective officials  promise  smaller  places 
and  rewards  to  their  men,  and  thus  the 
army  is  made.  To  foreigners  the  leader 
generally  promises  concessions  and  so 
gets  money.  With  a  force  and  some 
cash  he  marches  to  the  capital.  Matos 
had  sixteen  thousand  men  against 
Castro's  six  thousand.  I  was  with  Castro 
that  day  in  the  steeple  of  the  Church  of 
Ascencion.  Matos'  men  none  of  them 
wanted  to  die.  Castro  said  that  morning, 
1  I  win,'  and  his  regular  soldiers  went 
through  the  insurgents  like  a  mad  bull. 

"  When  a  revolting  general  wins,  as 
Castro  did  before  he  came  into  the  Presi- 
dency, he  marches  to  Caracas  with  his 
army  from  the  backwoods,  and  meets  a 
crowd  of  thievish  lawyers,  who  have  been 
Ministers,  and  know  the  ways  of  graft 
and  of  the  Government.  When  the  vic- 
torious general  is  made  Acting  President, 
they  adroitly  get  into  the  new  Ministry, 
296 


The  "Delta" 

and  show  him  how  to  conduct  a  pretended 
election  before  declaring  himself  '  Presi- 
dente  Constitutional.'  Now  the  time 
comes  for  the  redemption  of  promises  to 
his  henchmen. 

"  Some  of  the  chiefs  get  their  appoint- 
ments ;  and  at  once  their  enemies  flee  to 
Trinidad  to  escape  alive.  The  new 
officials  take  their  goods.  The  men 
driven  out  are  crazily  angry  and  des- 
perate, and  ready  to  join  the  next  revo- 
lution. 

"The  slick  lawyers  get  to  the  new 
President,  and  say  such  and  such  a  one 
is  not  fit  to  be  Commandante  of  the  pro- 
mised port.  '  He  is  a  good  fighter/  they 
allow,  '  a  giiapo,  but  he  is  a  rough  neck. 
He  cannot  fill  that  job — put  in  such  an- 
other.' So  the  President  tells  his  officer 
who  had  the  pledge  to  wait  a  little  while, 
or  he  appoints  some  one  and  says  it  is 
only  temporary,  or  he  offers  something 
else.  So  the  man  waits  and  waits,  getting 

297 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

angrier  and  angrier,  and  his  lieutenants 
call  on  him  to  fulfil  his  own  promises, 
which  he  cannot  do.  Finally  he  goes 
home  with  a  burning  heart,  ripe  also  for 
the  next  revolution.  The  President  seizes 
all  the  concessions  and  monopolies  he  can, 
to  hire  his  own  soldiers  and  keep  him- 
self President.  So  it  goes. 

"The  country  needs  a  new  Diaz,"  he 
concludes.  "  Old  General  Guzman  Blanco 
was  like  Diaz.  Truly  he  was  ridiculous 
with  the  statues  he  built  to  himself, 
plastered  over  with  the  title  of  '  El 
Illustre  Americano/  Yet  he  allowed  no- 
body to  steal  but  himself,  and  the  country 
was  the  most  prosperous  it  has  ever  been." 

The  Jefe  Civil  is  near  and  seems  to  be 
listening. 

"Tenga  ciudado,"  whispers  the  pro- 
moter. The  conversation  stops  abruptly. 

"  Those  trees  along  the  bank  are  very 
beautiful,"  says  the  cattle-man. 

The  scene  along  the  river  really  is 
298 


The  "Delta" 

magnificent.  The  water-rushes  rise  like 
a  lawn  from  the  water's  edge.  Behind  is 
tall  grass  several  feet  high,  then  stretches 
the  irregular  line  of  the  trees. 

The  Englishman  does  not  care  who 
hears  him.  "Say  what  you  please,"  he 
proclaims,  "on  one  side  of  a  ten-mile 
strait  is  a  province  as  large  as  Prussia 
lavishly  rich  in  untouched  natural  resources, 
without  a  mile  of  railway,  without  a  decent 
road,  without  industries  or  anything  but 
the  most  elementary  agriculture,  supporting 
a  poverty-stricken  population  of  less  than 
sixty  thousand.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
channel  is  a  little  island  fifty  miles  square 
with  railroads,  trolleys,  factories,  oil-fields, 
roads  like  boulevards,  supporting  in  peace 
and  prosperity  two  hundred  and  eighty 
thousand  people.  The  Flag  means  thus 
much,  anyway." 

"  Give  Venezuela  a  fair  chance,"  protests 
the  American,  "  Guiana  will  come  out  all 
right  yet." 

299 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

"  You  can  make  money  here,  anyway," 
says  the  German  in  a  conspicuously  loud 
voice.  "The  English  have  nothing  to 
complain  of,  if  they  don't  ship  through 
Trinidad  and  have  to  pay  the  30  per  cent, 
surtax.  They  sold  three  million  dollars' 
worth  of  manufactures,  goods,  and  cottons, 
to  Venezuela,  and  the  Germans  sold  two 
millions  only  ;  the  United  States  lose  out 
here.  They  send  nothing  but  wheat, 
patent  medicines,  and  a  lot  of  catalogues 
which  nobody  reads.  They  have  not  sense 
enough  to  send  commercial  travellers 
speaking  Spanish  down  with  samples. 
But  the  States  buy  most  of  the  exports 
and  send  gold  coin  back." 

In  the  evening  we  see  the  lights  of  San 
Felix,  and  the  Jefe  Civil  and  the  Com- 
mandante  are  rowed  ashore.  Later  we 
reach  Barrancas,  and  take  on  board  a 
dark-coloured  family  consisting  of  a 
bearded  local  magnate,  his  wife,  and  three 
senoritas. 
300 


The  "Delta" 

You  go  to  bed  to  the  sound  of  the 
thrashing  of  the  stern  paddles  and  wake 
to  the  cry  of  the  parrots  screeching  in 
the  jungle  alongside.  The  vessel  ploughs 
northward  through  the  morning  mist. 
You  stroll  around  the  decks,  watching  for 
monkeys  in  the  trees  upon  the  bank. 

One  of  the  senoritas,  aided  and  abetted 
by  her  sister,  seems  to  be  having  an  in- 
cipient flirtation  with  a  young  Venezuelan. 
You  pick  up  on  the  deck,  fortuitously,  a 
piece  of  paper  evidently  intended  for  him. 
On  it  is  written  in  a  delicate  feminine 
hand  : — 

"  Sefior  X.  i.  Esperame.  2.  Me  esperas? 
3.  Esperame  pronto." 

You  slip  it  to  the  Venezuelan,  who 
is  properly  grateful,  though  a  little  per- 
plexed at  the  selection  of  yourself  as 
intermediary. 

The  mangrove-trees  of  the  Delta  mouth 
appear  now,  pierced  by  an  occasional 
narrow  cano,  and  here  and  there,  rarely, 

301 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

the  thatch  of  a  Guarano  Indian's  hut. 
The  choppy  water  of  the  mouth  of  the 
Macareo  passage  is  passed.  The  man- 
grove coast  slowly  fades  away.  We  pass 
the  Soldado  rock  with  its  menacing  line  of 
breakers  and  enter  the  Serpent's  Mouth 
— of  sinister  memories  both.  The  hills 
of  Trinidad  appear  soon.  They  are  clearly 
defined,  with  the  regularly  laid  out  coco- 
nut trees  of  the  plantations  at  their  feet. 
White  houses  peep  out  between  the  palms. 
Just  as  the  sun  is  sinking  over  the  distant 
hills,  we  cast  anchor  in  Port  of  Spain  close 
beside  the  Royal  Dutch  West  India  Mail 
Steamer  bound  to-morrow  for  New  York. 


302 


INDEX 

PAGE 

ABERCROMBIE,  SIR  RALPH,  takes  Trinidad  for  England    24 
Aigrette — gathering  plumes  in  Venezuela     .         .         .  168 
Angostura  =  "  The  Narrows."     See  Ciudad  Bolivar. 
Congress  of  Angostura  frames  Constitution  for 

Greater  Columbia 43 

Asphalt  Lake — 

In  Trinidad 93 

At  Pedernales  entrance  of  Orinoco        .         .         .140 
In  Venezuela          .......  292 

BERRIO,  DON  ANTONIO  DE 15 

Expeditions  seeking  El  Dorado     .         .         .         .16 

Captured  by  Raleigh 18 

Dies  of  disappointment 18 

Bolivar,  Simon — 

Appearance 26 

Early  life 28 

"  El  Libertador  " 28 

Battle  of  Calabozo 42 

Elected  President  of  Greater  Columbia        .        .  44 

Crosses  the  Andes 45 

Battle  of  Boyaca,  liberates  New  Grenada     .        .  46 

Battle  of  Carabobo,  liberates  Venezuela        .        .  46 

Battle  of  Ayacucho,  liberates  Peru         .         .         -  47 

Abandoned  by  his  Generals 48 

Death 49 

CALABOZO,  Battle  of,  February  12,  1818 — 

Bolivar  and  Paez  defeat  Spaniards         .         .         .42 

303 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

PAGE 

Caroni  River,  location  of  El  Dorado     .        .        .        .14 

Friars  massacred 35 

Casas,  Bartholomew  de  Las 7 

Cassava  bread 139 

Manufacture  of  .         .        .        .        .        .148 

Castillos,  Los,  formerly  San  Thome — 

Stormed  by  English 20 

Present  ruins 171 

Chacon,  Don  Jose,  Governor  of  Trinidad  .  .  .  23 
Charles  V  abolishes  Indian  slavery  .  .  .  .12 
Ciudad  Bolivar,  formerly  Angostura  .  .  .  .  35 

Reached  by  Raleigh 21 

Blockaded  by  Bolivar 35 

Abandoned  by  Spaniards 36 

The  modern  city 189 

During  Matos's  Revolution    .         .         .         .    197,  219 

Public  improvements 199 

Cocoa-growing  in  Trinidad 73 

Appearance  of  plantations 85 

Coco-nut  industry  in  Trinidad 54 

Crown  grants .68 

Profitable  industry 73 

Columbus,  Christopher I 

Names  Trinidad 3 

Description  of  Serpent's  Mouth  ....  4 
Discovers  pearls  at  Margarita  ....  4 
Transported  to  Spain  in  chains  ....  6 

Corsicans  in  Trinidad 68 

Woodcutter  at  Barrancas 150 

At  San  Felix 171 

At  Ciudad  Bolivar 193 

DORADO,  EL— 

Origin  of  Legend  .         .  .     13 

Expedition  of  Ordez      .  .15 

Expedition  of  de  Berrio  .                 .        .        .   '  16 

304 


Index 


PAGE 


Dragon's  Mouth — 

Appearance    ...                 .                          .  51 

Columbus  passes    .                 .                 ...  5 

Nelson  passes        .......  24 

FERDINAND  OF  ARAGON         ....  -4 

Ferdinand  VII,  tennis  game  with  Bolivar    .         .         .27 
Friars — 

Befriend  Indians n 

Massacred  in  revolution 35 

Buried  treasure 209 

GERMANY — 

Sounding  around  Margarita  .  .     74 

Securing  Venezuelan  meat  trade   .  .161 

Gold- 
Discovered  in  Guiana  by  Raleigh  .         .         .         .19 

Buried  by  monks   .....  .  209 

Callao  Mine   ....  .  284 

Mining  difficulties 287 

Great  Britain 

Seizes  Trinidad 24 

British  officers  in  Bolivar's  army         .         .       33,  36 

British  Legion 43 

British  Legion  wins  Battle  of  Carabobo  .  .  46 
Government  of  Trinidad  .  .  .  .  .  76 
Naval  station  at  Trinidad 75 

Greater    Columbia   organized   by    Congress   of    An- 
gostura  ........     44 

INDIANS — 

Before  the  conquest 8 

Treatment  by  Spaniards  .....  9 
In  Venezuela  at  time  of  Bolivar  .  .  .  .33 
Guaranos  along  Orinoco  .  .  .  147 

Dislike  of  u  Commissions  "    .         .         .         .         .  165 

East  Indians  in  Trinidad 60 

Coolie  indenture  system         .  76,  85 

x  305 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 

PAGE 

LLANOS — 

Typical  households  on  .        .        .231,  237,  241,  246 

Transportation  across 255 

Ranch  life  on 255 

Hunting 261 

Medicinal  plants    .......  272 

Parasol  ants 260 

MANOA,  city  of  El  Dorado 14 

Margarita,  Pearl  Island — 

Discovered  by  Columbus 5 

Occupied  by  Spaniards 7 

German  naval  station 74 

Marequita,  Cacique  of,  visits  Spaniards        .         .        .16 

NEGROES — 

Labour  in  Trinidad        ......  73 

Negro  judges 79 

Negroes  v.  East  Indians        .                                  .  84 

Nelson  passes  Trinidad         ....                 .  25 

OIL— 

Importance  of  Trinidad  deposits  .  .     74 

Guyaguyare  field   ...  .     88 

Ojeda,  Alonzo  de,  names  Venezuela     ....      7 

Ordez,  Diego  de,  expedition  for  El  Dorado        .         .     15 

Orinoco — 

Columbus  passes 4 

Raleigh  ascends 18 

Bolivar's  military  base   .        .        .        .        .        -34 
Entrance  to  Pedernales  mouth      .        .        .        -134 

Vagre  passage .144 

Flora  and  fauna  along 145 

PAEZ,  "  Uncle,"  First  President  of  Venezuela- 
Guerilla  warfare 38 

Joined  by  Bolivar 41 

Captures  gunboats  with  cavalry     .         .         .         .  42 

Turns  against  Bolivar    ....                 .  48 
306 


Index 

PAGE 

Port  of  Spain,  Trinidad — 

Appearance  from  harbour 56 

Population     ........  60 

Society  in 66 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER — 

Seizes  Trinidad 17 

Ascends  Orinoco  .                 18 

Last  expedition 20 

Execution      ........  22 

Revolution  in  Venezuela     .        .     101,  197,  219,  292,  295 

Robinson  Crusoe  shipwrecked  on  Tobago  Island        .  50 

SAN  FELIX — 

Captured  by  Bolivar 35 

Serpent's  Mouth — 

Description  by  Columbus 4 

Passage  in  "  Geraldo  " 125 

Slavery — 

Indians  under  Conquistadores  .  .  .  .10 
Abolished  at  instance  of  Pope  .  .  .  .12 
Sale  of  women  along  Orinoco  .  .  .  .20 
Negro  slavery  abolished  by  Bolivar  .  .  31 

Spain — 

Occupies  Trinidad  and  Venezuela       ...      7 

Treatment  of  Indians 8 

Driven  from  Trinidad  by  English       .         .         .24 

Misrule  in  Venezuela "32 

Rebellion  in  Venezuela 29 

Atrocities  of  Royalists 30 

TEMPERATURE — 

In  Trinidad 65,  95 

Up  Orinoco 147 

In  Ciudad  Bolivar         .        .        .        .        .        .  203 

Theatre- 
Travelling  show  at  San  Felix      .        .        .        .173 

307 


The  Path  of  the  Conquistadores 


Trinidad— 

Named  by  Columbus    . 
Spanish  conquest  . 
Captured  by  Raleigh 
Spanish  occupation 
English  conquest 
Population  1911    . 

VENEZUELA — 

Named  after  Venice 
Spanish  conquest  . 
Independence  declared 
National  Government    . 
State  Government 
Local  administration 
Trade    . 
Population 

WELZERS — 

Granted  Venezuela  concession 
White  population — 

Of  Trinidad,  163  in  1773 

Of  Trinidad  1911  . 

Of  Venezuela    1817 

Of  Venezuela  1911 
Woods — 

Of  Trinidad  .... 

Of  the  Orinoco 

Of  the  Llanos 


3 

9 

17 

22 

24 
76 


•   7 

.   8 
.  28 

.  280,  294,  288 

.  199,  216 

142,  152,  279,  282 

.  300 

.  284 


23 
76 

33 

284 

86 
170 

272 


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